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Daphne and the Van in the RV Park at Bishop, Calif.
SIX HUNDRED MILES Oct. 12, 2010 - OMAK, Wash. - From my driveway back to my driveway, it was 3,767 miles. It wasn’t a “vacation,” because my intent was not to “vacate.” Just the opposite. My travels in the three years since John died have been about connecting. Oct. 10, 2010 - ASHLAND, Ore. - After a couple thousand miles of close confinement in a van, relieved only by long walks with each of us on opposite ends of the leash, happiness for both Daphne and me is an off-leash dog park. Oct. 2, 2010 - VISALIA, Calif. – I scheduled a two-day layover here in order to visit a longtime friend and former weekly newspaper publisher, Jim Marvin. I’ve experienced only a handful of really significant events in my life. Jim was instrumental in making one of them happen, and he was on the scene for another. Sept. 29, 2010 - Sun City, Calif. – It’s still all about the dog. If Daphne is to get any walks during our visit in Sun City, we must be up and out of the house before 7 a.m. Otherwise I’d keel over from the heat, which has topped 100 degrees each day. Sept. 25, 2010, - Needles, Calif. – I spent the third anniversary of my husband’s death crossing the Mojave Desert. I hadn’t planned that as some kind of metaphorical journey; it’s just the way the route took me. Sept. 24, 2010 - Bishop, Calif. – Even as I drive along, marveling in awe at the majesty of the Sierra Nevada mountains, I always have one eye out for a likely spot to let the dog run. When you travel with a dog, it’s all about the dog. Sept. 23, 2010 - Likely, Calif. - I couldn’t resist pulling off the highway in northern California’s Modoc National Wildlife Refuge at the designated “wildlife viewing point.” I tend to be a little skeptical about these viewing points, as if the “wildlife” are scheduled to appear for tourists like some kind of Disneyland event. Sept. 22, 2010 - Culver, Ore. - The old saying is, “It’s not the destination, but the journey.” My saying is, it’s not the journey, but the route. Sept. 20, 2010, Fircrest, Wash. - I’m intending to go south on this trip, but first I had to go west – 250 miles out of my way – to get the van worked on in Tacoma. Sept. 19, 2010, Omak, Wash. - A double homicide in my own backyard tells me it's time to get out of Dodge.
WHEN THE NEIGHBORHOOD
A double homicide in my own backyard tells me it’s time to get out of Dodge. Well, not a double homicide exactly – one definite homicide and one death by mysterious causes. Well, not all in my backyard; the mysterious death actually occurred next door. Still, dealing with two squirrel corpses in one morning has shot my nerves. Well, I didn’t have to deal with both corpses. My neighbor took care of the one in his yard while I watched in despair. “I feel like an assassin,” I told him. He gave me a bemused, possibly even patronizing look. I told him the story. For the past several weeks I’ve heard scurrying feet in the ceiling above my patio. I’d glimpsed a squirrel scampering along the eaves and was pretty sure he/she/it/they were stocking up, planning to hunker down for the winter as my upstairs neighbors. I told a few people about my suspicions and was advised, “They can cause a lot of damage.” I know they’re rodents, and generally I’m not fond of rodents, but I’m charmed by squirrels and the graceful way they dance along tree limbs. I don’t even object when they help themselves at the bird feeder. Seems to me they take no more than their fair share. Reluctantly, I asked my grandson to check out the roof. Sure enough, he reported a gap between roof lines that served as a welcome mat. Next thing I knew, he and his father were off to see about closing the gap. I thought nothing more about it until a couple days later when I saw a squirrel dash out of the open door of the tool room. A displaced rodent looking for new winter accommodations? I checked the room to make sure there were no creatures in it – other than the usual spider population – and shut the door firmly. The next morning Daphne, my mostly black lab, spotted the squirrel in a pine tree. Daphne stubbornly harassed her prey for several hours until, to my horror, she somehow jumped against a limb, knocking the squirrel right into her jaws. I heard one squeal of distress from the little critter and prayed that Daphne had the instincts to kill it instantly so it would not suffer. Soon enough, Daphne was at the door, proudly offering the limp corpse in her mouth. Not an hour later I saw my neighbor studying the corpse of yet another, larger squirrel. It was stiff, obviously dead for a while, and with no obvious injuries. CSI style, I reconstruct the story this way: The larger squirrel – the male – died suddenly and mysteriously. The female, unbalanced by losing both mate and home, chose death by dog instead of a precariously uncertain future. So maybe it was suicide, not homicide. And I was already planning to get out of Dodge, so to speak. I’m headed to Ashland, Oregon, by the most round-about route possible. But that’s another story, which I’ll post along with stories from my journey – pretty much daily. I welcome your company. FIRCREST, Wash. (Sept. 21, 2010) – Frequently when leaving my house, I want to drive south on Main Street, which requires a left turn. Instead, to avoid traffic I turn right (north), then go around the block, finally heading in the direction I intended. I’m intending to go south on this trip, but first I had to go west – 250 miles out of my way – to get the van worked on in Tacoma. I’ve owned enough vehicles and driven enough miles to know that when you stumble upon an ace mechanic, you drive the extra miles to get the work done. Driving extra miles is what this whole trip is about, which means I’ll be living with residual guilt. All who are addicted to vehicles and our gas-guzzling lifestyle have to accept our share of responsibility for the disastrous results, ranging from depletion of fossil fuels, to oil spills, to air pollution, to untimely deaths of innocent critters (human and animal) on our highways. But, oh, the temptation of the open road, of choosing your destination and route on your own terms and timetable. It’s all about being master of your fate, in charge of your life, a yearning so basic it’s why Eve ate the apple. It’s temptation to fulfill an illusion. I’m having repair work done, deluding myself that I can then take my 17-year-old van, with 120,000 miles already on its odometer, and drive a carefree, trouble-free, 3,600 mile loop through four western states. My end destination is Ashland, Oregon, which is a mere 600 miles if driven directly from home. I’m including a 3,000 side trip to accept a long-standing invitation from friends in Sun City, Arizona – mecca of the retired. My traveling companion is Daphne, the mostly black lab. On the road, we shall stay in campgrounds – the expensive kind that provide flush toilets, hot showers, electricity and wi-fi. But while our van is camped at the repair shop, we are staying with friends. Our hosts live in Fircrest, an intensely middle-class Tacoma suburb where my family lived throughout my teens. Unlike many areas around Tacoma, Fircrest hasn’t changed much over the years – the houses still very nice but not pretentious; the yards more extravagantly landscaped than in the ‘60s. While we wait for the van, Daphne and I take long walks, past my former home and the homes of long-ago friends. Other than our hosts, I don’t know the people here now. I babysat in many of the houses, and I wonder what happened to former residents. The cafe where we used to hang out after school is now a holistic pet food store. Around the corner is the office where I had my first part-time job, and a few blocks away is the former home of my first boyfriend. I still remember that first, shy kiss, like a feather gently brushing my cheek. We’re not covering a lot of miles on this leg of the trip, just travelling a goodly distance through the past. CULVER, Oregon (Sept. 22, 2010) – The old saying is, “It’s not the destination, but the journey.” My saying is, it’s not the journey, but the route. I spent countless hours at my computer, planning and discarding routes for this journey. I consulted Mapquest, AAA, Good Sam, Rand-McNally and friends. There are myriad ways to get where I’m going – and isn’t that a basic truth in life! I had several criteria: I wanted a route more or less direct, yet on roads I haven’t traveled recently, if ever; I want to drive interstates as little as possible, and, I want to drive ideally 250 – no more than 300 – miles a day, always ending up at a suitable campground. That last one pretty much ruled out Nevada. Starting south on I-5 yesterday reinforced my determination to avoid interstates. The truck traffic is unbelievable and even worse are the drivers who weave in and out of the trucks, cutting in too close at high speed. I happily exited the freeways in Portland, opting for laid-back Highway 26, speed limit mostly 45 mph, 55 tops. No wonder my GPS absolutely refused to route me this way. I finally turned it off. Highway 26 winds through Mount Hood National Forest, climbs past the ski hills, and descends through the breathtaking geology of the Warm Springs Indian Reservation. I’ve been on this road before, but it was long ago. I thought about turning in to revisit Timberline Lodge, where we’d skied many years past. But I just smiled at the memory and kept driving. The same nostalgic smile returned at the turnoff to Kah-Nee-Ta Lodge, where John and I once stayed. It is an elegant combination of native tradition and contemporary luxury, but it’s not in the budget this trip. It was about 4:30 p.m. – nearly closing time – when I reached The Museum at Warm Springs. I decided to stop for a quick visit anyway, since I’d never been there. By that time of day, I was the only visitor. The woman at the desk refused to take my $6 senior citizen admission fee, because my visit would be so short. Dramatically but objectively, the museum tells the history and tragedy of the Warm Springs, Wasco and Paiute Indian tribes – the loss of millions of acres of traditional hunting and fishing grounds, most notably Celilo Falls with construction of The Dalles Dam, and more poignantly, the systematic loss of culture and language when native children were forced to attend government boarding schools. The strategically constructed exhibits allow the visitor to dwell for a few minutes in that lost culture. Yet, not totally lost. The final exhibits emphasize how the confederated tribes are fighting to revive and sustain their heritage. The AAA guide book says to schedule at least an hour for the museum, I could happily spend a full day, and I will. I’ll be back next year. I know several routes to take me there.
Modoc
National Wildlife Refuge LIKELY, Calif. (Sept. 23, 2010) – Last Sunday, as I was buttoning up the house to leave for vacation, I heard the sandhill cranes overhead, flying south. It’s easy to hear their distinctly croaking call, but it isn’t always easy to spot them, they fly so high. “Yeah, well, I’m going south too,” I told them. So today I couldn’t resist pulling off the highway in northern California’s Modoc National Wildlife Refuge at the designated “wildlife viewing point.” I tend to be a little skeptical about these viewing points, as if the “wildlife” are scheduled to appear for tourists like some kind of Disneyland event. Still, it was worth stopping if only to enjoy the pristine marshes in the foreground, the shadowed mountains in the distance. The educational signs noted that this flyway is important to many birds, including sandhill cranes. I wondered if the flocks I’d heard in Omak had gotten this far by now. God knows, as the (ahem) crow flies, the cranes had a shorter distance to travel than I. I took a few photos, which I knew wouldn’t be worth saving, but in this digital age one gets reckless with the camera. It’s not like you’re wasting film. I closed the camera and then heard a distinctive call just over my shoulder. Two sandhill cranes rose up seemingly from nowhere, flew low over the marshland, and before I could turn the camera on, had settled back into the reeds. Every photographer has a million stories like that. I drove on to Likely, Calif., which is, of course, a most unlikely place. With no population center within hundreds of miles, somebody decided to build a golf course at about 4,500 feet elevation. Then they attached an RV park to it. Or vice versa. At any rate, you drive through miles of nothingness, then you follow a paved, private road to reach the RV park and golf course. I got here about 6 p.m. and clearly, from the echoing, convivial laughter, cocktail hour was underway. The RVs are all first-class. My little 18-foot van, vintage 1993, looks like an aging play house in a neighborhood of mansions. No one invited me to stop by for a drink as Daphne and I settled in, plugging into the power and arranging our campsite. The cocktail hour jovially echoed through the campground as I watched a full moon rise over the mountains to the east. Was anyone else noticing, I wondered, as I pulled out my camera and tried every setting I could think of to capture the moment. The moon is more forgiving than sandhill cranes, allowing a photographer some time. Mosquitoes finally chased me back into the van, and from there I noticed a man walking along the road, watching the moon as he walked, even stopping and turning back to keep watching. I connected with him. I’ll never meet him and he didn’t know it, but I connected.
Full moon over Likely, Calif.
Daphne and the Van in the RV Park at Bishop BISHOP, Calif. (Sept. 24, 2010) – Even as I drive along, marveling in awe at the majesty of the Sierra Nevada mountains, I always have one eye out for a likely spot to let the dog run. When you travel with a dog, it’s all about the dog. This was an especially good day for Daphne, the mostly black lab. She had two opportunities to run free, her first time off the leash in three days. As I was pulling away from Likely, Calif., I saw the community cemetery, beautifully grassy and fenced. Daphne romped and ran while I read headstones and tried to piece together the stories of the families in the area. We were about to leave when a pickup truck pulled up and a man got out calling, “No dogs allowed in the cemetery!” As I snapped the leash on Daphne to take her out, I apologized, observing that there were no signs barring dogs. He murmured something about people bringing their dogs in and leaving messes. I replied I would never do such a thing, pulling a plastic bag from my pocket as testimony. He asked if I had family buried there. I explained I just like visiting old cemeteries to learn something about the people. I commented how beautifully this one was kept up, and he said yes, he’d just mowed two days earlier. You must have family here, I said. And he said, no, he and his wife had moved there from San Francisco 24 years earlier. I asked about the town name and he said that the first homesteaders took a look around and agreed it was a “likely” place to settle. Even though he knows the history of the place, knows all the people and voluntarily maintains the cemetery, he chuckled when he said he’s still considered a newcomer. Miles and hours later, I pulled into Reno to buy gas. Avoiding a collision with someone who decided to turn right from the left lane, I was forced off my route but serendipitously discovered a beautiful arboretum and park. There the signs were clear: No dogs. I walked Daphne on her leash outside the park and spotted a beautiful labyrinth and garden. Leaving Daphne in the van, I took 15 minutes to walk the labyrinth, which was constructed as a healing center in honor of violent crime victims. It was a beguiling design that made you think you were arriving at the center only to be turned away again and again. One walks a labyrinth in hopes of being spiritually present without “thinking,” but I couldn’t help thinking about that elusive journey to the center. Late afternoon found us in a small town whose name I failed to note, and Daphne got another good run in a fenced ball field. Now we’re in a large, tightly packed RV park where people are strolling around with every make and model of dog – all on leash, of course.
Labyrinth Garden, Rancho San Rafael Park, Reno NEEDLES, Calif. (Sept. 25, 2010) – I spent the third anniversary of my husband’s death crossing the Mojave Desert. I hadn’t planned that as some kind of metaphorical journey; it’s just the way the route took me. The Mojave is legendary, the iconic setting for all those Westerns I watched while growing up. There is the desperate hero, stranded with a lame horse and no water, limping his way through the cactus when suddenly, PING! The sound of a bullet glancing off a nearby rock. “Be sure to come back next week, kids, for another thrilling episode of …” The drive was easy, because I was in no particular hurry. I had a John Grisham novel on the tape player, air conditioning set on medium, and a panorama of mountain ranges that appeared one after another on the horizon, like leafing through the pages of a child’s pop-up picture book. There were long lines following slowly behind big trucks on curvy, hilly, two-lane roads. I left plenty of space ahead of me for all those darned fools who were determined to pass in risky places. I took one side trip to drive a short stretch of Route 66, just to say I did. I was in no hurry because I knew that triple digit temperatures awaited me at my scheduled “rest” stop for the evening. The van has AC as long as we’re moving, but once we’re stopped, we are subject to the ambient temperature. I pulled into the Needles KOA, where I had a reservation. The clerk noted that I had asked for just water and electricity but, she said, that side of the campground had no shade. For just three dollars more I could be on the sewer hook-up side where I could hunker down behind 10-12 foot shrubs. It worked out to about a dollar an hour for shade until the sun went down, and it was the best three dollars I ever spent. I tried to cool down by reminding myself that in another week I’ll be heading back to cold Oregon nights, welcoming the warmth of a sleeping bag. The Needles campground is beautifully landscaped, desert style, and alive with native birds and quail. Next to the campground are vast acres of what folks in my county call scrub land. I decided to trust Daphne off the leash so she could explore. I was also worried she might be constipated, and a little freedom might help loosen her up. She picked her way across the concrete earth, past some fierce-looking shrubs, and left a healthy deposit. This was one time I didn’t pull the plastic bag out of my pocket to eliminate the evidence. It could only enrich the area, I decided. I’ve always been curious to see the Mojave. I drove through many towns and past side roads that would be interesting to explore, but my appetite for this particular desert is sufficiently fulfilled. I know I have more cactus-lined roads ahead of me.
SUN CITY, Ariz. (Sept. 29, 2010) – It’s still all about the dog. If Daphne is to get any walks during our visit in Sun City, we must be up and out of the house before 7 a.m. Otherwise I’d keel over from the heat, which has topped 100 degrees each day. Our early morning walks are a little like strolling through a cheerful ghost town. Even though the area is dense with houses, there are virtually no people to be seen, no signs of human habitation – morning, noon or night. The residents presumably are indoors, huddled around their air conditioners. Or, I’m told, a goodly number of the homes are indeed vacant, waiting for their part-time, snowbird owners to flock in from the North later in the fall. Sun City is the quintessential American retirement community. Original development dates from the 1970s. The friends I’m visiting live in a newer area, where houses are spacious, especially considering they need accommodate only one or two people. Yards are exquisitely landscaped dessert-style, with spectacular cacti and blooming shrubs planted in varying hues of rock, gravel and sand. Nary a blade of grass to water or mow. Wild rabbits and quail are plentiful, distracting Daphne, Cars are rare in driveways or on the street. They’re neatly tucked away in two-car garages, where the second vehicle is frequently a golf cart – the preferred and legal mode of transportation on local streets. You can find tiled or glazed driveways more highly polished than an upscale granite kitchen counter. A recent New York Times article told how Sun City officials are having to intensify enforcement of one of the community’s strictest covenants: No children are allowed to live here. Grandchildren may come to visit, but only for a specific number of days per year. Infractions have increased steadily since the economy tanked. Presumably, families in trouble are forced to move in with grandpa and grandma. Imagine what it would be like to try to keep exuberant children under wraps in a neighborhood like this! “But why don’t they want children?” asked a friend some weeks ago as I was telling her about my plans to visit here. She, who is 81 and lives in a town house with neighbors of all ages from infants on up, was genuinely puzzled. The Times report didn’t answer her question, nor can I. There may be many answers, but I wonder if basically it’s a yearning to live in an unreal world – something we all yearn for from time to time. On each walk I’ve seen one gentleman who does not fit my preconceived, Sun City stereotype of tanned, affluent and vibrant golf-playing seniors. This man shuffles along slowly, leaning on a cane, his gray hair and beard long and straggly. We greet each other along the way. His voice is strong and cheerful, his greeting genuine. Sun City may be unreal – to me, at least – but there’s more sun here than just that blazing orb overhead. VISALIA, Calif. (Oct. 2, 2010) – I scheduled a two-day layover here in order to visit a longtime friend and former weekly newspaper publisher, Jim Marvin. I’ve experienced only a handful of really significant events in my life. Jim was instrumental in making one of them happen, and he was on the scene for another. Jim was owner and publisher of the Morton (Wash.) Journal when nearby Mount St. Helen’s erupted. Some months later, John and I ran into Jim at a newspaper meeting in Seattle. Jim suggested we take the long route home and visit him in Morton. We agreed, and when we pulled into his driveway, he was waving his arms anxiously, yelling, “Hurry! He’s waiting for you!” Who he, we wondered. Turned out air traffic over the mountain had finally been cleared, and Jim had arranged for a pilot to fly us into the dome. John grabbed his camera and we climbed into the four-seater – me in back. John was shooting rolls of film while I, always susceptible to motion sickness, prayed I wouldn’t vomit all over the nice man’s plane. At the same time, I really didn’t care how sick I felt, because it was one of those moments when you think, “If I die tomorrow, it’ll be all right. I’ve experienced the best life has to offer.” The second event was on a hot Saturday afternoon in June of 2000, seven years after John’s stroke. That’s the day he drove his wheelchair the mile-long route across the spillway of Grand Coulee Dam. We conceived of the stunt to demonstrate how people who are dismissed as hopelessly paralyzed, or in some circles “vegetables,” can achieve grand things. Jim was living in California by then, but there he was, on-hand with a cadre of other dear friends, walking that mile with John in the blazing sun. I’d planned to spend this evening and all-day tomorrow with Jim and his wife Linda. But when I pulled into the Visalia campground around 5 p.m., I was beat after a day of freeway driving. I called Jim and begged, “Let’s wait until tomorrow to get together. I’ll be rested and better company.” He graciously agreed, and I decided to take a swim and launder my sheets. That’s when I discovered that my ice chest, which sits on my bed during the day, had sprung a leak. All my bedding was soaked. I was thankful to have discovered the situation at 5 p.m., when I had time to get everything dried, rather than at 10 p.m. after what probably would have been a very nice dinner, but when solving the problem would have been sheer exasperation. Now I’m about to crawl into a freshly laundered, thoroughly dry bed, and I can look forward to tomorrow. It’ll probably be a laid-back day, exploring the beauty of this richly productive central California area. But I long ago learned that with Jim, you can expect anything.
Friend Jim Marvin greeted us at the KOA Campground ASHLAND, Ore. (Oct. 10, 2010) – After a couple thousand miles of close confinement in a van, relieved only by long walks with each of us on opposite ends of the leash, happiness for both Daphne and me is an off-leash dog park. Daphne, my mostly black lab, was introduced to the concept last Sunday in Visalia, Calif., by my friend Jim Marvin. I’ve already described Jim as someone who excels in creating mountain-top experiences for his friends. Daphne was giddy with the thrill of romping at will across a large, grassy field in the company of other frolicking canines. Two nights later, when we pulled into Ashland, I checked the Internet and found an off-leash park here. It’s especially welcome because, while Ashland’s Lithia Park is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever enjoyed, dogs are absolutely not welcome, even on a leash – to the tune of a $250 fine. Dog parks are about citizen involvement. They’re developed because dog lovers get together and make it happen. Rules (e.g., no aggressive dogs, clean up your dog’s poop, etc.) are enforced only because there’s an overall atmosphere of civility, courtesy and conviviality among the dog owners. In our four days of visits to the dog park, I continually struck up conversations with other dog owners, from ages 8 to 80. It’s rare that one generates so much as a “hello” with passersby while strolling through elegant and canine-free Lithia Park. Dogs give humans a reason to bond. The real purpose in visiting Ashland was for me to attend plays. Daphne never figured that out. Before each play (six in four days), we’d visit the dog park. She’d chase balls and other dogs until her tongue was hanging so long she’d practically trip over it. Then she’d happily climb into the van and sleep soundly while I reveled in Shakespeare. Each evening, there’s some kind of free entertainment on the “green” – a grassy area – outside the theaters. The show draws a family crowd, and afterward, children play on the grass. Their favorite stunt is to roll down the sloped lawn. I noticed a strange dichotomy. At the dog park, dog owners were very much involved with their pets, throwing balls, running and walking, petting, disciplining – whatever it took. At the green, parents were very much on the sidelines, socializing with each other, keeping an eye out but not involved in the children’s play. That’s not a judgment; just an observation. I’ve seen and reveled in my six plays. With a thoroughly tired Daphne asleep in the van, I enjoyed a solitary farewell dinner at a second-story restaurant. I sat on the balcony, looked out across the golden Rogue Valley, and remembered all the years John and I visited here. I imagined him sitting in the empty chair across the table. Knowing that he would have loved the moment doubled my own enjoyment. Whether it’s the company of the dog, the still-vivid memories, or the work of my own imagination, I never travel alone. OMAK, Wash. (Oct. 12, 2010) – From my driveway back to my driveway, it was 3,767 miles. It wasn’t a “vacation,” because my intent was not to “vacate.” Just the opposite. My travels in the three years since John died have been about connecting. Actually, reconnecting. I have driven and flown across the state, the country and even overseas not to see the sights but to connect with people who were part of my past – our past – and continue to be part of my life. Why, I wonder, do my friends and family insist on scattering themselves about the globe? I have even more miles, more reconnections, to go. This trip included friends who have not seen me since John died. They had to get used to me without John, just as I’d had to do. We celebrated memories of past joys while we adjusted to the new math – an ensemble minus one. The last reunion, on my way north from Ashland, was bittersweet. It was the first thing on my mind as I awoke that morning, knowing that I would be saying a final goodbye to Fr. Charles – friend, priest and spiritual mentor. I’d called earlier in the week to arrange the visit and learned from Pat, Charles’ wife, that he’d been diagnosed with bone cancer. He was under hospice care at his home in Cottage Grove, about a three-hour drive. My sadness was tempered by gratitude that I would have an opportunity to tell Charles how important he’d been in our lives. I was eager to get on the road when reality intervened. My front left tire was flat as a pancake, as I lamely observed to the AAA tow truck driver. “Not my pancakes,” he retorted, claiming he makes ‘em light and fluffy. That’ll teach me to use clichés. He changed the tire and insisted I not drive further without a functional spare. The flat could not be repaired, so two hours and a new tire later, I was finally on my way, cursing my usual nemesis – the finite boundaries of time – on this one day when I wanted time to stop altogether. “I’m terminal,” Charles announced succinctly as I sat at his bedside. He would allow no pretense that life was going on as usual. I said the many things that were in my heart. I reminded Charles that, during the darkest days of John’s post-stroke depression, Charles had given him a sterling silver, “sunburst” cross that manifested light for John’s desperate soul. It was a continuing comfort, I said. “That was what I’d hoped,” Charles said softly. I’d promised myself I would not tire him, would stay only 15 minutes, 30 at most. After an hour, I rose to leave, kissing him goodbye as he protested I should stay. It feels unnatural, leaving the dying, because really, it is they who are leaving us. Goodbye. A word shortened over the centuries from “God be with you.” A word so full, yet not nearly so full as my heart.
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