I couldn't find him among any of the tiny pockets of my two bags - and between them, there were over a baker's dozen (maybe even a quilter's dozen) - and though I had limited the housekeeping visits and leaving locked up what I could, it occurred to me that my father could have just disappeared with the cleaning staff after they had gone through my room.
I shrugged. There were worse fates. I had more of my dad back home, and he had never expressed any attachment, or even knowledge of Belize, so I'd this mission failed, no great loss. I just thought he might have gotten a kick out of having s little bit of him taken on whatever voyages I might take. When he was younger, he liked to travel. I think he'd appreciate being down south, a little, even if it was snorted by some foreign maids.
But eventually, there was a pocket I hadn't checked, and there he was, the little tin that contained a thimbleful of ashes from 2014.
I didn't spend much time on it, but I found it interesting, at airport security, that I had to dump my sun tan lotion because it had more than three ounces of liquid and had to empty my water bottle, but no one paid attention to the small container of unnamed powder I was carrying between countries. Wrong direction? Whatever.
The Tools of a Trip |
No comments:
Post a Comment