The day passes quickly. As we pass through Anchorage, I begin the task of closing out tabs. The WiFi connection for my credit card device isn’t working. I use my iPhone hotspot, which I occasionally drop signal on. This process makes me anxious that I won’t finish closing passengers out before the port.

As the sun doesn’t set until 11pm now, it doesn’t feel like evening as we near the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel.

The tunnel is the longest combined vehicle-railroad tunnel in North America. As I have yet to go through the tunnel, I’m excited to do so! I try to get the passengers excited about this tunnel but they’re not having it, wanting only to arrive at the cruise ship.

As we enter the tunnel, I’ve completed all transactions and am able to enjoy the tunnel experience.

The tunnel serves as a gateway to the port. When we exit the tunnel, we can see the ship waiting at the port for its passengers. And the passengers are excited.

As we pull into the station, I remind the passengers to wait until given the ok to disembark. The train has stopped, but certain safety measures must be in place before they can disembark.

I take note of the weather. It’s overcast and drizzling. The ship, the weather and coastal scenery remind of my own Alaskan cruise in August of 2022.

I’m hit with a tinge of sadness. This memory of the loss of my parents again. My Mom in July of 2022 and my Dad in October of the same year.

They’d wanted to go to Alaska and didn’t get the chance. So when I went, I shared a lot of photos and experiences with my Dad.

I called him once during the trip when I was having a particularly difficult time. Hoping to be comforted by his strong voice of reason. This wasn’t his usual role. This was Mom’s job. But in her absence, he did the best he could.

I notice a couple of smaller birds flying outside the train. Despite the rain they seem happy. And I wonder if it’s my parents. Stopping to say hello.

I hear the ok for the passengers to disembark. I snap back into reality and blink away the tears that are trying to form.

The train is emptied quickly and I begin the task of cleaning up my bar.

Soon the employees load onto the bus to head north to Anchorage. I’m reunited with Derek and enquire about his day. We both count our tips.

At the tunnel, we had a brief stop. Waiting for our turn to enter. My phone notifications load and I catch up on a message thread from my three daughters.

Two of them along with my grandsons, had went earlier in the day to visit the location of my parents’ memorial. Where we had spread some of my their ashes. My girls had prayed they’d see or hear a sign that their grandparents (my parents) were there.

God didn’t disappoint.

There was a small blue butterfly that fluttered around one of their shoes. In the short video clip, my oldest grandson can be heard saying, “Look. It’s grandma!” (His name for her, despite her being his great grandma) Later two birds flying around each other. Chirping happily.

As I read this and saw the pictures, the videos, the tears fell.

I hunched my shoulders and lowered my head to hide the tears. I tried to get myself together. Not wanting to explain the tears to my fellow coworkers.

I know my parents would be proud of me. It’s not lost on me that they’re not here to see it in person.

I miss not being able to call them and tell them my stories. Sending them pictures.

They are part of the reason I’m here in Alaska for the summer. Their passing reminded me how quickly life ends. I want to experience it all. I want to take chances. Even if I’m afraid.

I take comfort knowing this moment is from God. A carefully orchestrated string of events. Reminding me of my reasons for being here. That my parents live on through us. And I am not alone.

I look up just as a coworker smiles. I smile back and settle in for the rest of the ride. Vowing to cry my eyes out when I get home.