I needed to get away. Historically, this time of year is a hard few weeks. The weeks leading up to Dad’s passing. It’s the same every year. I become teary, and agitated, and a sense of heaviness descends.

I drove on the highway, to a 4-lane state road, to a 2-lane state road, then parked at the trailhead. I applied sunscreen, doffed my baseball cap, and started walking. I remembered how much he loved the New River. I remembered how much he loved the outdoors. I saw sons hiking with their fathers and I cried silent tears behind my sunglasses. I wanted to be hiking with my father.

I remember the moment, almost six years to the day, when he hugged me and thanked me for being there with him and Mom. I remember my arms around him, shocked at how thin and frail he was. I remember thinking it was nothing, of course I was there, and we’d have many more days ahead of us.

I wish that had been true.

As I walked along the river, I talked to Dad. I told him I missed him as tears ran down my cheeks. I wished I could discuss current events with him, the state of the world. I wished I could talk to him about plantings, and what I’m thinking of doing with the raised beds this year. I think about how I moved back to NC eight years ago, anticipating Mom’s decline and ultimate death, and expecting Dad and I to spend many years together. I mourn the future that never came to pass.

I have inherited the love of the mountains from Dad. I walk along the Laurel River and marvel at its beauty. At its resilience. At how it is thriving after Helene. I say a silent prayer, thankful for what I’ve inherited.