I was 33 when I received the news.

I still remember my father’s sullen face as he informed me he had less than a year to live. I never pictured my dad as anything but strong. He was always the protector. A former athlete, he was my definition of vigour and brawn. So to see him in that state was unsettling and spoke of just how dire the situation truly was.

A few months later when I turned 34, he was gone.

Since that day, I’ve kept him close both figuratively and literally. In my home, on a bookshelf, sat an inconspicuous gold metal box containing his remains. It didn’t resemble a traditional urn. Rather, it was contemporary and not unlike decor available for sale at Home Sense. Guests would never guess it’s true purpose. I felt a sense of comfort having it. An inanimate presence that I would occasionally hold one-sided conversation with. Over time, I built a makeshift shrine with trinkets collected from my travels. Places he would have liked to visit. Achievements he would want to be part of. It was my way of keeping him involved.

Playing on my mind has always been the thought of “letting go” but I was never sure if I would be strong enough. Grief may follow predictable patterns but everyone’s experience and timeline is unique. Eight years on, mine is still there. The sorrow quieter but ambient; I anticipate it will never fully wane.

I always wanted to honour my father in a very specific way. The pandemic influenced me to finally plan for it. As much as we all wanted to break out of our homes after consecutive lockdowns, I envisaged my father’s spirit the same way. A box—even a gold box—was not worthy for his eternal rest. I originally toyed with the idea of taking him to a place he always wanted to visit but had never been (just to say he made it there) but later determined that he needed to be closer. To have eternal rest in a familiar locale that brought him peace in life. A place where those survived could form new memories while thinking of him.

Only his favourite place in the world would do. The crown jewel of Canada: Banff National Park.

My father loved the Rockies. He visited so often, every road, every trail, was embedded in his mind. From valley to peak, the unspoilt wilderness—and wildlife which he always revered and respected—were affirming for him. Thus, in perfect orchestration with loved ones present and a bighorn sheep that curiously observed the ceremony from afar, my father was returned to the wild he loved so much. Goodbye for now, but not forever.

We are all eternally bound by the earth, sea and air.