We’ve just come back from a month in Mexico, a time of surviving myriad family dilemmas rather than any sort of vacation. Upon returning to what we call “home” in our little town at the mouth of the Sacramento River, I’d collapsed, exhausted, into bed, and it was twelve hours later before I pushed myself up to greet a new day. We went for a morning walk.
I was immediately struck by how simple and pleasant life was in this Small American town. There were no buses honking at us, no train horns blaring, no threat of being kidnapped or robbed, no foul smells from open sewers, no garbage to sort through in an endless Mexican obstacle course for the disabled. Instead, there were sidewalks without potholes, stoplights where cars halted for pedestrians, singing birds and plants and flowers everywhere. And I could smell the sea air.
We sat on a favorite bench on the waterfront and felt the sea breeze caress our faces, hearing the lap of small waves on the rocky shore. The fronds of a palm tree swished the air above us. I thought back on the past month, the turmoil and seemingly endless days and nights, the world where I felt so alone and lost.
We went so that my wife could spend time with family. we went because I’m not sure we’ll ever go back again. They all noticed how her mind had deteriorated. They all heard her babbling, understood that she is less and less able to connect with reality. And that was good. There is no more hiding from the truth. Someone they all love dearly is slipping away.
And so that time was good. And so, my wife and I found ourselves sitting on a bench in the warm sun, surrounded by tranquility, and she put her hand in mine and said,
“I love you.”
I squeezed her hand and thought, this is as good as it gets.