Family

Photo: berries growing by the French Broad river. June 2024.

There was a Dollar General semi-truck in the river.

I had flown to Asheville to visit family for Thanksgiving in late November. I was riding with my mother, winding through back roads to avoid washed-out sections, to meet my sister and niece for a movie. Our route took us along a portion of the Swannanoa River. So many things had been left behind by the flooding from Helene two months ago: a delivery van, a twenty-foot boat, construction debris, plastic bags, so much detritus.

A self-portrait of my father. I believe he sculpted it while he attended art college.

One year ago today, on a cold Halloween evening in Bremerton, WA, my father Galen Gibson passed away.

I’ve struggled to articulate how I feel about his death. We hadn’t spoken in five years – a decision I had made, and not lightly – when I got word. The coroner, looking for a next of kin, had contacted my mother first, who sent them my way. I had to facilitate the cremation; the ashes and what few personal effects were sent to me. I shipped the cremains to a distant relative in Kentucky, where they were buried next to his mother’s grave.