In the tapestry of my memories, my father's presence is woven into the fabric, each thread an adventure: the Milky Way shooting across the Sierra Nevada, the powdery snow beneath our ski tracks, and the hum of tires on the open road along I-70. His spirit, like a guiding thread, knits with every memory, making each one not just a recollection, but a tangible moment—a thing or a place that I can touch and feel, because he helped me to experience it in a meaningful way.

Twenty miles in one day. Initially,