I can’t believe it’s actually snowing. It’s sheer luck D.C. is getting snow, and on Christmas Eve to boot. I duck my head against the wind and make my down the walk. The snow is really starting to pile up.

I know exactly which panel I want and exactly where on that panel I’ll find his name.

“Merry Christmas, Dad.” I hope he knows how much I miss him.

A reflection, of someone just over my shoulder, suddenly becomes very clear. I turn rather quickly; startled to have someone get that close. For and instant I think Mac may have joined me. Instead I find myself looking at the vaguely familiar face of a woman about my mother’s age.

She holds up a small votive candle, “I’m sorry. I forgot to bring something to light this with.”

I fish my Zippo out of my pocket and take the candle, “Who are you here to honor?”

“An aviator. Lieutenant Harmon Rabb.”

Someone who knew my father. How did she know my father? Why the hell can’t I place her face?

“Little Harm. That’s what your father used to call you isn’t it?”

I smile a bit, but I’m still confused as to how she knows that.

“I met your father onboard the Ticonderoga. I was traveling with Bob Hope’s USO tour.“

Recognition dawns, “You’re Jenny Lake. I have your album with Count Basie.”

“Ah, my jazz experiment.”

As she continues talking, telling me how she knew Dad, I see some trepidation on her face. As the story moves on I understand her fear. I feel a spark of anger at what she’s telling me. But it’s only a spark and the snow is enough to put it out.

I’ve not led the purest of lives by any stretch of the imagination, and I guess I shouldn’t expect perfection from anyone else. Not even my father. I can imagine what he was feeling. Those you love are so very, very far away. You want to hold them close, to love them with all your might, but you can’t. So instead you use other people. It’s not something you’re proud of; it’s just something that happens while your heart and your brain are on the other side of the world with your loved ones.

I’ve always put my father on a pedestal. I do it because all five year olds do that. And when it comes to my father, I’m still seeing him with those five-year-old eyes.

Jenny Lake leaves. Her story is now part of the legacy my father left me and his wings are with him again. But I’m still here. Alone and missing him, my mother, and everyone I love.

I’m standing, staring at the trees between the Lincoln Memorial and myself. I dig my hands into my coat pockets to keep me from picking up that little black box full of gold wings.

Suddenly, a hand slips between my elbow and my body. Mac. She links her arm through mine. I pull my hands out of my pockets and wrap my arms around her. I pull her so close I nearly lift her off the ground. When I hear a slight gasp for air I relax my hold but I don’t let go. She doesn’t pull away. She burrows in closer and returns my embrace. I’m not sure how long we stand like this.

“Did you drive?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m parked over there.” I wave my arm in the general direction of Constitution Avenue.

“Good. I took a cab.”

At that, she pulls back and looks me in the eye. I see her eyes narrow and she studies my face.

“What happened tonight?”

“Not much. Found out my father met Jenny Lake.”

“Hmmm. John always said I looked like a young Jenny Lake. I don’t see it.”

“Me either. Let’s go.”

End

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