In just over a week I fly to Ohio to say goodbye to Patrick one more time.
These moments are telling in the way they deliver both sorrow and joy: sorrow for the loss of a father, joy in the company of people who come to honor him.
This is also another one of those final milestones, one that I mentioned a few months ago, the end of another part of the cycle of Patrick’s existence. Just as there are no more conversations, e-mail, awkward hugs or shared laughter, there will be no more formal memorials after this one.
His legacy lives on–in the music festival (which turns 40 next year), in some of his children and grandchildren, in his writings and recordings–but a legacy is like a dead language: eloquent, vivid, a peek into the souls of the writers, but no longer vibrant, changing, growing.
In just over a week we say goodbye, one last time.
Each day after that we will say thanks, thanks to Patrick and Stephanie, thanks to them both for enriching our lives.
I’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.