An orphan's packing list

Today I missed my mother, and that made me wonder why I don't miss my father more. While they both were alive, I was so much closer to my dad. And in the years after my dad died, my mother and I bonded so thoroughly that I was almost grateful to my dad for going. Which felt traitorous, but there you have it. When my dad died, I thought I would, too. I was in so much pain I wished I could just jump out after him. But what's strange is that my dad was always partly so sad with this life that after he left it, he seemed to be so thoroughly gone. And my mother? She seems close, even in the third year since she died. I feel her sometimes, when I'm cooking, or when I'm dithering between decision points. When I want to cry, I miss my mom. She always seemed to know when something was troubling me to that point, and one look from her would start the flood. I couldn't cry around my dad, though, because it completely unwound him. Any hint of waterworks and he'd unleash a pervasive aura of fear and impending helplessness that would dry my tears right in their ducts. But he knew how to listen, so if I could hold it together we'd discuss what was bothering me and that always helped in its own way.

I've been gone for a couple of days, in the Central Valley for work. Now when I travel, I pack more carefully than I did when I was younger and could just fling outfits into a bag without having to worry about medicines, contact solutions and permanently missing parents. For this trip, I packed light: one change of clothing, plus the necessary toiletries, meds and potions. I took my father with me in the form of a letter I wrote him many years ago. And to keep my mother near, I packed her favorite ring - the one with the filigree setting and the dark purple stone worn smooth between its facets.