Tomorrow Comes
What a week it was. Or maybe two. Full of anxiety and anticipation, both good and bad. The first week was given over to oral surgery, a wisdom tooth removed, and the healing that followed, with trips to Houston to make it happen. Then I was back again for crown work, and the big unknown was the possibility of a root canal. I dodged that bullet, and while dodging it I began preparation for a small memorial service for my wife, Saturday past.
The service was for a tiny group of her friends/our friends, ya-ya’s and their husbands, vaccinated all, to gather and mourn. They missed the first go in August because it was immediate family only. On the appointed day, we gathered in the cemetery, reminisced, laid flowers, drank a toast and then repaired to the house for food. I was excited and it was good to see them. Meanwhile, my daughter and a friend unexpectedly came into town, and arrived at the house that evening. Joy. We had a good visit, and while she and her friend sat on the porch Sunday morning, yesterday, and talked to her brother, I put some plants in the ground.
Before she left, she gathered some of her mother’s clothes to take home as did the ya-ya’s the day before. Then, they were gone. All of them. Everyone. That’s when the motor stopped. There I was high in the clouds, with only the sound of the wind rushing by, alone, with sadness, falling to earth on a long. Slow. Glide. I lay on the couch and let it happen. Why? Because I knew that evening, I would join a family for dinner. There the sound of laughter and children would help me remember that while something was indeed lost, all was not lost; and at the end of a long empty road, sometimes there’s a house with a light on waiting for you. And you can enter without knocking. And just like that, tomorrow comes.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale