A Variation on Vows Guests arrive for the celebration. Neat wrappings wait to lay crinkled. Pressed formals hang in garment bags, not knowing their fate.
Twenty-four nurses trailed into the room. They found seats within the circular configuration of chairs, where I sat. A mound of rocks rested in the middle of the circle.
Last Friday, we sat crowded in the doctor’s office beneath white lights and the weight of a new cancer diagnosis. My in-laws, husband and I waited for the doctor to arrive and deliver my father-in-law’s pathology report.
“Write as if you were dying,” pens Annie Dillard. My relationship with dying began in 1978, the year I entered nursing school.
The air snapped crisp as a freshly picked apple. The night’s storm had broken; clouds parted, skies opened. We walked before, but never like this.
Mom sat across the table, picking at her chef’s salad. “Will you shave my head when my hair starts falling out?” she asked.
Hope is like the sun, which, as we journey toward it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us. ~Samuel Smiles People in Maine coined this winter, “The one that wouldn’t end.” Pounded with snow and snappy temperatures, this resilient people hold on with the hope for spring, new life.