I’m not much of a traveler. I get hit with fear; it feels
like a sledgehammer pounding out the creases in my forehead. I worry about
loosing my passport, catching the flu from germs on the plane, making a fool
out of myself in a foreign country and ending up in jail. The list,
ridiculously long, goes on forever.
Both my children, well versed in travel, did not inherit my
traveling jean. In fact, my daughter spent her senior year as an exchange
student in Thailand, and both kids spent time in Mexico and California with
relatives.
Nik, my son, had a courage that astounded and delighted.
After he died, I decided to act more courageously in his honor. So when four
girl friends invited me on a 2.5-week trip to the Mexican Caribbean, I stuffed
all my fears in a vintage suitcase, and placed it on the top shelf of my
closet, where I can’t possibly reach it.
We swam with the turtles, fished, and ate ceviche, tamales,
and fresh corn tortillas. We walked along the creamy sand that stretched across
our horizon, mingled with the tourists and the locals, snorkeled, and danced in
the waves.
Thank-you, Nik, for lending me your strength and your
courage; I miss you everyday.
