Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the road less traveled by
And that has made all the difference…Robert Frost
Ultimately we have no choice but diverging roads.
I can’t claim we had no warning. When we packed our goods in the home we built together, he tired so quickly that I (with a strong young neighbor to lift and carry boxes) had to take over the packing, but he still watered the yard, brought in Swiss chard for his “veggie rice” breakfast special, planned to plant spring bulbs in the home we would share with Youngest Daughter and family, looked forward to family drives up the Columbia Gorge when peach trees bloomed.
I asked if we should postpone moving to finish packing. He said, “We have to move, now, while we can.”
He was right. We spent most of the third night at our new home in an emergency room, the next days getting scans and seeing doctors. Before the oncologist could obtain a new drug that might help, it was time for Hospice.
Our last travel was not to view flowering fruit trees, but, via U-Tube, to watch Scottish dancing and take a train on the Siberian railroad. Easter Sunday we celebrated Resurrection together with a live-streamed service–an ironic benefit of the pandemic. A few days later he took the road to rest and healing. His work was finished.
My road goes on here with our children and grandchildren, with books to write–and quite likely home schooling to supervise.
The book of his life is finished, but I have no reason to close it. The blessings of family and friends, of places we’ve been and joys we shared, are pages that remain open.