[The following post is one my wife wrote. It's a worthy read]
It's been ten years since I packed my mother's suitcase, helped her dress, and guided her down the front sidewalk of her home and into the back seat of a friend's car. In my pocket were our tickets--round trip--from Dallas to Boston and back again.
None of us knew how weak my mom really was, or that just over a month later, in the quiet of my living room, with Christmas tree lights sparkling and the family gathered round, she would take a flight of a different kind.
Or that ten years would pass so quickly, and with each year, the pain of her loss would ease.
That is, until the marker of time--one year, two years, five years, ten--brings it back, fresh and raw. And I am once again walking down that concrete walk. Only this time, with every step, I know we won't be needing the return tickets after all.