Blankets were piled neatly in the corner. Different kinds of blankets; cotton, wool, electric with the cord attached, and plug hanging by a wire. Some were just plain white. Others had knitting on them of lambs jumping over the moon, red barns, outlines of blue skies. Grandma stitched em together years ago. She said my dad used to play camp out in the front room, using blankets, drooping over chairs as a roof, and another on the green shag carpet he pretended was grass.

Grandma said he died over in Vietnam. Told me he was a Marine. She said he wasn’t over there, no more than six months, and they were shipping him back with a flag across his casket. I never believed her. I knew Dad was out there, somewhere.

Funny thing about Dad. There was no headstone for him. No final place of rest. Grandma said the old man was cremated, and a twister one night scattered his ashes all around town. She told this story with fake tears streaming down her face. And that’s when I started looking.

I packed a duffel bag and swung it over my shoulder. Decided I’d head out West. As west as you could get. As far North too. Went to Alaska in the spring. Almost all the snow had melted. Flowers in yellows and whites with some reds were beginning to bloom. Needles on pines were green.

It was there in Anchorage, Alaska, that my travels ended. Seated at a bar on a wooden stool was my old man with long brown hair and a wild beard drinking whiskey. I imagined him shaved and with a short cut. He looked just like me. Brown eyes and all. Even had a gut like me.

I sat down next to him and ordered a whiskey as well. Turned to him and toasted. He lifted his glass. We sat in silence.