Before launching into this post, a warm, loving hug to my dad (rest in peace) and my father-in-law. I love you both. Happy father’s day, one dad to another.

A week ago, Josh completed his semester abroad in London, said goodbye to his host family, had a final pint (or two) with his mates, and caught a flight to Barcelona.  Melissa and I had hoped that all three of our children would, simultaneously, spend some time with us at the end of this sabbatical, but our three children are not really children anymore.  Their lives, like meteors that briefly orbited the home planet, are beginning to break free of our gravitational pull and explore new trajectories.

Josh, however, was up for a few days with the parents before heading back to his Seattle world.  He is kind to us that way, indulging us.  When I told him I had found some good flights from London to Barcelona, he said, in all seriousness, that he would “just get a bus.”  Josh hates airports.  I can relate. I bought him a plane ticket.  

Melissa and I caught a train to Barcelona to meet Josh.  His flight did not get in until almost 11:00 pm, which left Melissa and me with most of the day and way too much of the night to explore this incredible city. Barcelona is Paris, London and Los Angeles tossed in a salad, at least the tiny slice we saw.  Our hotel sat at the intersection of three distinct neighborhoods: the Gothic Quarter, a labyrinth of narrow alleys anchored by a soaring Gothic Cathedral; El Born, a kind of medieval New York, a twenty-four-seven haven of trendy bars and restaurants; and, an unnamed beach community complete with open air markets, Venice Beach Bros in sleeve-less tees and a host of people hawking every conceivable tourist trinket.  

• 

• 

We spent the day walking the Gothic Quarter, making it to the roof of the Barcelona Cathedral and continuing on to the famous (or infamous, depending on your artistic sensibilities) Gaudi Cathedral, officially known as the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia. This monstrous structure resembles a cathedral only in the most abstract way.  When I first glimpsed its drip-castle-like spires piercing the blue sky, my mind struggled, first, to acknowledge that such a thing could exist, and second, to understand exactly what I was seeing.  Simultaneously, Melissa and I looked at each other and said, “it reminds me of the White Temple in Chiang Rai.”  Only two people who have travelled together for six months would possibly understand this statement or appreciate just how much we have begun to think each other’s thoughts.  We have become the mental version of people who begin to look like their pets.  For me anyway, this is a step up.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

When Josh finally made it to the hotel, Melissa and I, running on the kind of adrenaline every parent who has not set eyes on their child for months understands, managed to stay awake until midnight to hear about Josh’s semester.  The next morning, we had brunch at a fabulous, tiny restaurant tucked into the side of some ancient building in the Gothic Quarter, and then caught a train back to Collioure.  Because of the train schedules, we did not get in until early evening.  We spent the next three days together, walking the beach (while Josh scaled the rocky cliffs), eating and drinking, playing cards (Melissa became obsessed with casino), skipping rocks at dusk, and silently bursting with a parent’s mixed bag of pride, joy, love and tenderness for a kind, decent, intelligent young man that, even after twenty-two years, remains one of three miracles we did nothing to deserve but were nevertheless blessed to receive.

• 

• 

• 

• 

Josh’s departure not only ignited the inevitable letdown of saying goodbye, but also triggered a fire drill when, on the morning he was scheduled to depart by train to Barcelona, we discovered that his flight to Charlotte had been cancelled.  I managed to book him on an earlier flight, but it was fifty-fifty that he’d make it to Barcelona on time.  Nevertheless, he wanted to try.  His friends were picking him up in Seattle.  There was a certain young woman involved.  It was his decision.

He missed that flight. Melissa and I felt that empty, anxious place in the pit of our stomachs that mysteriously materializes whenever one of our kids, no matter how old, is stressed, unhappy, or in a difficult situation. As I write, fortunately, Josh has landed safely in Seattle.  The black hole in my stomach has closed.

At dusk on the day Josh finally caught a flight home, Melissa and I brought gin and tonics to the beach and sat on the huge stone jetty leaning against each other, delighting in the soothing warmth of the stones.  A handful of children waded in the cold, blue water on the rocky beach, periodically squealing at everything and nothing.  A few dozen people sat at tables on the esplanade sipping beers and aperitifs.  The landscape glowed in the fevered light of the setting sun.  Without saying a word, we both felt the tension and stress of Josh’s departure drain from our bodies.

Dusk is our favorite time of day, especially in Collioure, a soothing massage of the mind and senses that lingers impossibly for hours.  Experiencing that healing moment after the tension and drama of Josh’s departure made me aware of how challenging it is to live in the United States in this time of political, economic and environmental dysfunction.  Maybe I am preparing myself to return to Seattle.  Still, I can’t shake the simple, stark truth that the only way to let go of anger, anxiety, hatred, bitterness and resentment is to, simply, let go of it.  From this sheltered distance, I read the dire predictions of a Trump victory, I scan the nervous articles describing a Democratic party tearing itself apart, and I want to ask my Democratic friends and Trump supporters alike, “aren’t you tired of being angry?”  

I am not naïve about what is at stake in this coming election.  I do not think dreamy evenings with a gin and tonic will make everything better.  Yet, as I re-enter the turmoil that has become the new normal in America, I hope to do so without anger or fear.  I will do whatever I can to defeat Donald Trump, not because I want Democrats to retake the Senate or vindicate the last election’s defeat, or because I want to hold it over those that disagree with my politics.  I want to defeat Donald Trump, because he has become for me (and I believe, for America) a white-hot coal we clench in our angry fists.  I am tired of being angry.  It’s time to unclench my fists and drop that burning coal.  I hope there are others, Democrat and Republican, who feel the same way.