After zipping my suitcase shut and slipping my laptop into a carryon, the last thing I did this afternoon was slip one of my mother’s rings on my finger to wear while I’m in London. As I did, I thought about the many things she didn’t get to do, partly because she died young at 74 but also because her vision of the world was so small.
One of my closest male friends commented that I’d been very peripatetic lately, and it’s true. We’ve been traveling like crazy these years. I thought about why.
I travel because my mother couldn’t. So many wonders in this world that she never got to see. I see them for her.
I travel for my father, who devoted his life to his patients but who loved the travel he did get to do. Which by our standards wasn’t much, but to him, well, it exceeded the expectations of a middle son of illiterate immigrant parents.
So as I zoom eastward over this continent and across the ocean and enjoy the sights, sounds and sensation of London, I’ll be thinking of my parents, grateful for the life they gave me. And I know I’ll pause many times during the week and wish I could show them what I’m seeing.