Chapter Eleven ~ Fiona #2
The answer to all those questions is a resounding yes.
He was all those things and so much more.
The version of himself he put out to the public was the real him.
He didn’t believe in pretenses, and he always stayed true to himself.
He was the smartest, funniest, kindest person I’ve ever known, a truly larger-than-life figure.
I’m proud he was my dad, and feel blessed to have had his presence in my life for as long as I did, even though it wasn’t nearly long enough.
People often say they wouldn’t be who they are today without a certain person in their lives.
For me, that person was my dad. My best friend reminded me recently how Dad always told us we had the rivers of the world running through our veins.
I got my wanderlust from him, along with my courage and confidence.
He, along with my mum, gave me room to spread my wings, and understood when those wings took me to far-off places.
They also understood when those wings didn’t often bring me back home to them, but they always encouraged me, and were glad to know they’d raised a daughter with a free spirit and a heart that wanted nothing more than to roam free.
My dad’s heart will always be with my mum and me, and with those who knew and loved him, but I’d like to think of his spirit roaming free now.
Thank you for your kindness, patience, and understanding as I take some time to be with my family.
I’ll share some of my recent travel pictures and stories soon, and it won’t be long before I’m off having adventures again and filling my feed with new content.
I hope to see many of you along the way.
Love, Fiona
Likes and comments start flooding in within seconds of hitting Post. I say a silent thank-you to those people, then close the app. Writing that left me teary-eyed and drained, so I don’t think I’m up to reading sympathetic comments or questions, let alone replying to any.
The comment earlier about starting a blog pushes to the forefront of my mind.
I’ve always thought it’d be fun to have a blog—a domain I own, unlike social media, which can and does change and disappear—but it’s a big time commitment.
Hell, even my dad had a blog section on his author website, where he talked about his writing process, shared news of upcoming books and events, and posted pictures and stories from his travels.
I’ve also toyed with the idea of following in my dad’s footsteps and writing a book.
While the idea of non-fiction appeals to me on a certain level, it’s fiction that’s always had my heart, especially romance.
I could write a book or a series set in my favourite places, with real-life stories woven into fictional tales of love, self-discovery, friendship, and adventure.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the legacy Dad left.
The lasting impact, both through his work as an author, and who he was as a person.
Knowing he’ll live on through everyone who loved him, plus all his past, present, and future readers and fans, is comforting.
To think I could do something similar that creates a lasting impact is both daunting and exhilarating.
My somewhat chaotic train of thought veers toward Dad’s journals.
The day Mum gave them to me, I carefully laid them all out on my bedroom floor and sorted them: journals in one pile, writing notebooks in another.
Then I sorted the journals by date; Dad had written the start and end dates of his entries on the front page, so it was easy to do.
When I’d settled down to read the first one, which started the day he left Ireland as a teen, I only got a few pages in before I started worrying my tears would blot the ink and I’d ruin the books. I haven’t picked one up since.
It’s a given that reading them will make the ache of missing him even greater.
But what if they make me even more stir crazy than I already am?
What if I discover Dad had regrets about leaving his nomadic lifestyle to settle down in Honeywell?
He never expressed that, and he never seemed anything other than content in his life here with us, but…
“You’re projecting,” I whisper to myself as I stare at the stacks of journals on my desk.
Dad was happy. He loved travelling, but he loved Mum and me more.
And it’s not like he never left Honeywell.
He still travelled often, both to Ireland and other places, sometimes purely for fun, and other times for work.
The roots he put down here weren’t buried so deep he couldn’t still return to that life of adventure for a few weeks here and there when it called to him.
Sometimes I wonder if a life like that would be enough for me. If I’d ever be content to stay in one place. If I’d be able to settle down, either on my own or with someone else, or if a life of adventure will always call to me.
Dad would tell me I could have both. In fact, if I close my eyes, I can almost feel his presence and hear his lilting voice: “You can have it both ways, Fiona Mae. You can have it all.”
I jump up from my bed and pace around the room. It’s late, nearly eleven o’clock. I should be exhausted after a long day, but my body is buzzing, and these racing thoughts would only keep me awake if I attempted to go to bed now.
I need movement, and not just the back-and-forth pacing in my bedroom. If I were in London, I wouldn’t consider venturing out on my own this late at night, but this is Honeywell Hollow. The crime rate here is practically non-existent.
And I’m afraid if I don’t burn off some of this energy and quiet my mind, a walk around the neighbourhood won’t be far enough for me, and I might give in to my itchy feet.