As I write this, part of my dad’s ashes are soaring across the pond, headed to Belfast, Northern Ireland. He never made it back for a final trip to his homeland, so this will have to suffice.
His last trip back to Ireland was well before I was born. He was recuperating from a life-threatening illness. It was the last time he saw his mother alive and I know he was happy he made the trip back for that reason alone. I’m sure he talked about this trip in detail many times as I was growing up, but the specifics are hazy for me now. I wish I could remember more details, where he went, who he visited and what he thought of his homeland after he had spent time living in New York City and Los Angeles.
He always talked about going home when I was growing up, but he never made it back. He hated flying, and the expense of the trip was daunting.
I did find this photograph of my dad as an adult in Ireland, standing along the coast, with his sister and her young son. He looks happy, confident and at home. I hope he feels that way now.