August 26th (Shannon)
On the anniversary of my father's , we had his 4th ceremonial feast. Hard to believe a year has gone by. When I get homesick, I remember he's not there, how he was my home, and I'm glad I'm traveling, and grateful to him for his generosity. He was Ojibwe, and we are following the advice of Rosy, my friend, an Apache medicine woman who befriended my father when he was sick.
In Phil's honor, we had the best steak of our lives at La Tranquera, in Lima. We filled a dinner roll with my father's feast of meat, french fries, broccoli, avocado and gravy. Planned to serve it on a plate of ocean. Around 11 pm, down at the beach, we found a white gingerbred fantasy restaurant way out on a pier in the Pacific, La Rosa Nautica. Its floodlights turn the water a supernatural pale green.
The ocean churns. Huge surf rolls in, booms and rocks the building. We found an upstairs walkway that was empty, above the ocean. In the bathroom I tok a fat red rose head from a bowl of water. It was the end of the night, and I hoped they didn't mind. I was thinking of my grandmother, who asked us to drop a rose into the water when we spread his ashes in the Atlantic.
We leaned on a rail and looked out at the sea. I thought about how it spreads to Catalina, where Carrie put some of his ashes, and Bali, where we just were, and felt his spirit so strongly. The wind was gusty and the ocean was wild, green and mysterious, glowing like jade in the open and sliding dark as a cave under the pier. I dropped tobacco in the ocean and Jon lit a stick of Amazon Indian incense, a beautiful smell.
We smudged Papa's dinner bun and tossed it to him. It floated and immediately started cruising out to sea, as if pulled by an invisible string under water. Even though big waves were rolling into shore, toward the rocky beach, the bun would drift that way for a minute, then slide out toward the night horizon. I thought of all his feast meals this year, all in places where he likes to play, where he is. He's part of the water now.
How he enjoyed that steak. When the bun floated beyond the light onto the dark waves, it began to glow, as if phosphorescent. We watched it for a long time, a tiny light glowing in the distance, bobbing farther and farther out to sea, never sinking, never going out. That's the light of our father. This was his feast. I love you, Phil.
In Phil's honor, we had the best steak of our lives at La Tranquera, in Lima. We filled a dinner roll with my father's feast of meat, french fries, broccoli, avocado and gravy. Planned to serve it on a plate of ocean. Around 11 pm, down at the beach, we found a white gingerbred fantasy restaurant way out on a pier in the Pacific, La Rosa Nautica. Its floodlights turn the water a supernatural pale green.
The ocean churns. Huge surf rolls in, booms and rocks the building. We found an upstairs walkway that was empty, above the ocean. In the bathroom I tok a fat red rose head from a bowl of water. It was the end of the night, and I hoped they didn't mind. I was thinking of my grandmother, who asked us to drop a rose into the water when we spread his ashes in the Atlantic.
We leaned on a rail and looked out at the sea. I thought about how it spreads to Catalina, where Carrie put some of his ashes, and Bali, where we just were, and felt his spirit so strongly. The wind was gusty and the ocean was wild, green and mysterious, glowing like jade in the open and sliding dark as a cave under the pier. I dropped tobacco in the ocean and Jon lit a stick of Amazon Indian incense, a beautiful smell.
We smudged Papa's dinner bun and tossed it to him. It floated and immediately started cruising out to sea, as if pulled by an invisible string under water. Even though big waves were rolling into shore, toward the rocky beach, the bun would drift that way for a minute, then slide out toward the night horizon. I thought of all his feast meals this year, all in places where he likes to play, where he is. He's part of the water now.
How he enjoyed that steak. When the bun floated beyond the light onto the dark waves, it began to glow, as if phosphorescent. We watched it for a long time, a tiny light glowing in the distance, bobbing farther and farther out to sea, never sinking, never going out. That's the light of our father. This was his feast. I love you, Phil.
posted by squid | 6:45 PM
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