I’ll write you a postcard

Please note: this piece contains descriptions of grief some readers may find upsetting.

The adventure begins with a wedding.

I step down the aisle, arm looped with my Dad’s, relying on his steady pace and presence to stop me rushing in a blur to my awaiting husband-to-be. I can’t help the grin plastered to my face.

'Everyone’s staring at us', Dad whispers conspiratorially, making me giggle. I kiss his cheek as we reach the bottom, bursting with gratitude that I’ve lived the moment I’ve dreamed about since I was tiny.

I turn to my groom and squeak a “hi!”, excitement wobbling my voice. We smile at each other like we’re in on some big secret joke together, easy laughter ready on our lips.

We become husband and wife. I don’t let the celebrant finish before I throw my arms over my husband’s shoulders, tiptoed in my heels, and kiss him to the cheers of our families.

Drinks never leave our hands, the dance floor is never empty and the smiles never leave our faces.

Dancing like a galaxy of orbiting stars, spinning and bouncing, merging and crashing to the music.

Swaying with Dad to his favourite song, belting the words together like we’re on stage in front of a big band. I soak up his beaming face and tuck it into my heart. I don’t know then that it’s the last time I’ll ever sing with him.

Then it’s Loch Lomond and being pummelled in the centre of a jumping circle of our loved ones who lasted the night, giving us the rite of passage into married life. And collapsing into our bed, ready for the rest of our life.

The rest of our life starts with a west coast road trip with our dearest friends from France. Perhaps an unusual honeymoon but one we wouldn’t change for the world.

We pack our wee car for a three-day trip, tunes carefully curated and route planned out. As we get to the solitary roads between the towering sentinels of Wester Ross, we stop regularly to marvel at the views.

Rolling white clouds cast roaming shadows from the lazy October sun. A loch meanders through sleeping giants, layered in hazy silhouettes. We stand on top of boulders strewn across the mossy bank, as if we might be standing on top of the world.

Across the road, thick glossy red mushrooms speckled with white creep from the leafy undergrowth and we spin tales of fairies and wee folk.

At sunset we arrive in Lochcarron and we’re treated to a spectacular drizzly golden display casting a slip of rainbow across the loch, welcoming us to our stone cottage for the night.

The drive continues to Beinn Eighe. We stop at the side of quiet roads, treading the centre lines like a tightrope and diving into secret thickets to hop over trickling brooks.

Rainbows follow us the whole way, skipping across the sky in vivid bands against the soft glow of the sun. Close enough that you felt you could reach out your hand and caress your fingers through the current of colour.

'I’ve never seen the light like this,' my husband murmurs, all of us gaping from the car windows, not quite believing what we’re seeing.

We take the mountain trail up Beinn Eighe, occasionally whipped by the wind and rain. Our rainbow stretches from one side of Loch Maree to the other as we look down from the peak, cloudy sky reflected in the still water. At the blustery top, we sink behind a rocky overhang and energise ourselves with ham rolls and snacks, sharing how grateful we are to be doing this together.

At our pit stop in Gairloch, we write postcards to our families. I write to my Dad to tell him of our adventures and how much he’d love it. I don’t know then that he’s unwell and when it arrives, he’s getting tests with the doctors.

On our return drive, we stop to look back at the long winding road in the valley we’d travelled up, a loch tucked away at the bottom. We watch a deer amble up the hillside next to us and huddle to take a photo, completing a journey we’d talked about for years.

I’m struck by a thought: that I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life.

Before long, we’ve hugged our friends goodbye at the airport and are getting back to normality after the best week of our lives. The future unfurls like a blooming flower that I want to stick my nose in and breathe the possibilities.

I think our adventure is finished, but that’s not our decision to make.

We get the news about Dad and his cancer. A month, maybe two. He’ll be lucky if he sees Christmas.

I’m distraught but there’s no bitterness in me. I’m grateful at least for the last memory of the wedding, I’m grateful that I can wrap myself in a blanket of joy from our travels to warm me through the cold grief.

The family take Dad for one last trip to Glencoe so he can see the Scottish landscape that lives in his heart. Our lodge sits loch-side surrounded by the hills, water lightly lapping the pebbled bank below our balcony. We sit and solve newspaper puzzles together, drive around the Three Sisters and he watches, content, as the little ones play around the lodge.

He doesn’t make it to Christmas.

His adventure ends with a funeral. A day full of family, and full of stories. Of Dad and his life. Of love and loss.

I wonder what memories and adventures he replayed in the end. I wonder what moments he knew he would remember forever.

I had the best and worst week of my life, but because of one I’m able to endure the other.

So when the churning waves wreck me and the storm clouds roil and rage, I think of the buttery sun and the cascades of rainbows. When every step into the unknown takes me a step further away from the me that you knew, I think of all the adventures to come.

I’ll write you a postcard of every one.

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