These excursions acted as definements of my family and in later years opportunities for Dad and I to converse our way into solid friendship. My reverie was interrupted by the image of Susan driving my fidgety and disoriented mother around in endless circles in the parking lot with security guards in hot pursuit. So without pause to check which way the wind was blowing, I emptied the bag of Dad's remains to the night air. Amid a sigh of relief that the breeze was taking Dad gently over the bay, and not onto my hair, I looked across the water to the shore where he lived as a child and knew this was the right place. Turning to leave I remembered passing the Bird Cage Lounge adjacent to the Ladies Room.
Some people ritualistically save a rose from the spray of flowers upon a casket.
Climbing into the back seat of the car, I clutched a bourbon and coke - Dad's drink of choice. Sometimes we find ourselves and others in the death of someone. I also realized, in a quirky sort of way, that all three of Dad's ladies were there on the pier, saying goodbye. Susan never got her hotel brochure, but I got a rose - a plastic drink stir from the Bird Cage Lounge.