Vacation. Even the word itself carries warmth. For most people, it means a break from routine, a chance to explore somewhere new, or simply time to relax. For me, it has always meant something a little deeper. Something almost magical. And that magic has everything to do with my father.
The anticipation that started in October
In our house, vacation did not begin when we packed our bags. It began months earlier. October, to be exact. That was when the anticipation quietly started building. Travel brochures would appear in stacks, carefully collected and brought home like treasures. My father would sit down and go through them one by one, comparing destinations, imagining routes, weighing options as if he were planning something truly extraordinary. And in a way, he was. Because for him, the holiday was not just the trip itself. It was everything leading up to it.
The ritual that made it real
There was one moment that marked the official beginning of every vacation. A small tradition, but one that made everything feel real. When the day had finally arrived, my father would step outside, ring the doorbell, and wait. We would open the door, slightly confused, only to find him standing there with a wide grin on his face. “I can’t come in,” he would say. “The holiday is at the door.” It was such a simple joke. And yet, it carried so much joy. In that moment, everything shifted. School, work, responsibilities, all of it faded into the background. It was time to leave it behind and step into something lighter. Even now, just thinking about it brings a smile.
The long, beautiful wait
The months leading up to our trips were filled with conversations. Where would we go? What would we see? What would it look like? What would we eat? What would we do, or not do at all? We would flip through brochures, point at pictures, imagine ourselves already there. Beaches, cities, mountains, all of them temporarily becoming part of our everyday conversations. My father had a way of making that anticipation feel just as exciting as the trip itself. Looking back, I realize that he was not just planning holidays. He was creating an experience that stretched far beyond the actual days away.
When a joke becomes a memory
Years later, my father is no longer here. But some things stay. Not long ago, my sister called me for a casual chat. Somewhere in the conversation, she mentioned she could not get into her house. Naturally, I responded with practical concern. “That’s not very convenient. Is someone else coming home soon?” She laughed. “No,” she said. “The holiday is at the door.” And just like that, it was back. The same joke. The same feeling. The same warmth. It was comforting and bittersweet all at once. Proof that some things do not disappear, even when the person who created them is no longer there.
The quiet absence in beautiful places
Vacations are still beautiful. Still filled with new places, new experiences, and moments worth remembering. But something is different. There is an absence that quietly follows along. Not loud, not overwhelming, but always there. Every time I discover a new city, see a breathtaking view, or experience something special, there is a small pause. A moment where I wish I could share it with him. I imagine telling him about it. Showing him pictures. Hearing his reaction. And in that moment, the joy and the missing exist side by side.
The moments I wish I could share
There are sunsets I wish he could have seen. Streets I wish he could have walked through. Stories I wish I could still tell him. I know, without a doubt, that he would have loved hearing about it all. And I know he would have been proud of the adventures I continue to take. Not because they are big or impressive, but because they carry the same spirit he once brought into our lives.
Carrying him along in every journey
Even though he is not physically there, he is never truly absent from my travels. His way of looking at vacations, his enthusiasm, his ability to turn something simple into something meaningful, it all stayed. Every trip I take carries a small part of him with it. In the way I look forward to it. In the way I enjoy it. In the way I pause to really take things in. And sometimes, when I stand at the front door, ready to leave, I still think of that familiar line. “The holiday is at the door.”
A legacy of wanderlust
What he left behind is more than memories. It is a way of experiencing life. A reminder that anticipation matters. That joy can be found in the smallest rituals. That something as ordinary as a vacation can become something deeply meaningful when shared with the right people. And perhaps that is the most beautiful part. Even though he is gone, the feeling he created still exists. In every trip. In every moment of excitement. In every memory that resurfaces when I least expect it.
Holding on while moving forward
Vacations will always carry a special meaning for me. They are moments of rest, discovery, and new memories. But they are also moments of reflection. Of looking back at everything we shared, and feeling grateful for it. Because even though I can no longer share my travel stories with him, he is still part of every story I create. And that, in its own quiet way, makes every journey feel a little more complete.
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