My favorite holidays aren’t defined by one place or one trip. When I think about them, I think about my father, my Aba, and the way he made travel feel like so much more than just going somewhere new. He didn’t just take us on vacations, he made us a part of something he truly loved. From sitting by the window on the Pacific Coast Amtrak train watching the ocean stretch endlessly beside us, to long drives from Los Angeles to Lake Tahoe filled with conversations and quiet moments, every journey felt complete simply because we were together.

Some memories still feel almost unreal, like climbing over a thousand steps to reach Mount Saint Michel in France, exhausted but happy, or traveling across Europe from Paris to Zurich and Amsterdam, experiencing new places while holding onto that same sense of closeness. Aba always said his trips would feel empty without us, and now I understand what he meant. It was never about the destination for him, it was about sharing those moments with family, about making sure we were there with him in everything he experienced.

Now when I look back, those memories mean everything to me, but they are also bittersweet. I sometimes think about going back to the same cafés and places just to feel close to him again, even though I know it won’t ever be the same. And maybe that is okay. What stays with me is not the places, but the feeling he created, the warmth, the togetherness, and the quiet happiness of being there as a family. I have already lived my favorite holidays and most of my wish list. I was 29 when I lost my father. He is a big part of me and will always be. I dream of him often and find comfort in that.