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“You know what I mean, Mom!”
“Yes, and you think grief made me helpless.”
His arms dropped.
“I think you’re hurting.”
“So, am I supposed to stay here until that stops?”
“No, but you could wait.”
“You know what I mean, Mom!”
I pulled the suitcase zipper halfway closed.
“Wait for what?”
“Until traveling feels less… final.”
That word caught me.
***
Frank and I had spent 32 years waiting for our Mediterranean cruise.
“Wait for what?”
Every anniversary, we put another hundred dollars into an old blue cookie tin marked “Our Big Adventure.
Then life reached in.
The furnace broke.
Daniel needed tuition.
My mother needed care.
Frank needed heart surgery.
Each time, he’d tape the loose lid shut and say, “We’ll go next year.”
Nine months before our departure, doctors found pancreatic cancer.
Frank died 11 weeks later.
My husband had been dead for three months.
Then life reached in.
***
Daniel stepped toward the bed.
“Cancel the tickets. Keep the money for an emergency. Listen to me, Mom.”
I turned to him.
“Whose emergency, Daniel? For when you need money?”
“Mom, that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what everyone always means.”
“Cancel the tickets.”
Mikayla placed the final sweater inside.
“Dad wanted her to go, Dan. If Mom is strong enough to go, let her go.”