The Canoe and the Turtle

Dad loved the outdoors. He loved the way the river curled around rocks, the hush of trees in the wind, the long shadow of mountains. And I loved him for it.

When I was little, I collected turtles. I’d watch them lumber across our yard, slow and deliberate, carrying their homes on their backs like secrets. Dad said turtles were proof that you could survive anywhere if you learned how to carry your own weight. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.

Maybe I loved turtles because I loved Dad. Because being close to them felt like being close to him. Even now, when life feels too heavy, I picture a turtle slipping into water, its shell breaking the surface like a promise. Maybe that’s why I write these stories. To carry my home on my back, too.

My dad didn’t find peace in shopping malls or bright city lights. He found it under open skies, in the hush of mountain trails, the ripple of water against a canoe. When I think of him, I think of the hikes we shared — boots pressing into dirt, backpacks heavy on our shoulders, silence filled with birdsong and rushing streams. I didn’t always appreciate it then. As a child, I sometimes wanted the easy comfort of staying home. But once we stepped onto a trail, once the world narrowed to trees and sky, I felt closer to him — and closer to something bigger than both of us.

Now, when I hike alone, I still hear him. I feel his presence in the wind that pushes me up a ridge, in the quiet strength of the earth beneath my feet. I whisper prayers between steps and find myself speaking to God in the same rhythm I once spoke to my dad. Nature has become my sanctuary. It’s where I’ve learned that grief can be softened by wonder, and sorrow can be steadied by beauty.

When my dad passed, much was taken from me. My stepmom made sure of it, erasing my place in his story as if I had never been written into it. But one thing I do still have — the canoe. Our canoe. The one that carried us across waters, that rocked beneath our laughter, that held the weight of our bond.

It sits with me now, more than a vessel. It’s a reminder that memory cannot be stolen, and love cannot be erased. That canoe carried us then, and in some way, it carries me still.

The memory of the righteous is blessed. And so long as I carry my father in my heart and in the places we loved, nothing — not even death — can take him away from me.