Letter: When You Can No Longer See, Remember What Was Said

Down feathers swirled and billowed in the rear view mirror, an instant summer snow storm behind our green Volkswagen bug.

We were setting off on our honeymoon a half-century ago, going camping in the far northern wilderness reaches of Canada.

The trunk had come open and our pillows flew out on either side, and there on the highway behind us they were promptly demolished by the cars that followed.

And the feathers flew.

With no time but for a brief glance at the rather – in literal hindsight – comical scene behind us, I peered through the opening between trunk and dash and found my way to safety at the side of the highway.

As fast as we could then drive – legally – so our love and life together would somehow approach the finish – too quickly, incomprehensibly – on this very day, the eve of Valentine’s Day, one year ago.

When we should have been planning an evening of flowers and dinner and romance, we were instead in the Oncologists office where we were told our journey had come to an end.

And the tears flowed.

And now, as I type this, I’m having trouble seeing the page before me.

And I remember.

I remember what we said to one another that day in the church before setting out on our life together.

“To love and to cherish until….”