Our Walk

This day last year had a different kind of noise to it.

Not loud, exactly. Just full.

Full of people coming and going, voices in the kitchen, the quiet coordination of care that good friends seem to manage without a meeting or a memo. Terry was in his bed, drifting in and out like a radio station you almost catch if you stand in just the right spot. We all pretended, gently, that this was temporary. Just a bump. Just another infection. Something we would look back on and say, “Well, that was a stretch.”

Hope can be very polite like that. It doesn’t argue. It simply takes a seat and waits.

The women took me out for lunch while their husbands baby-sat Terry. I remember laughing more than I expected to. It felt a little rebellious. Like sneaking dessert before dinner. I also remember checking my phone too often, as if my looking might somehow keep things steady back home.

Good friends know when to insist.

They gave me a few hours off from being the responsible one. A small, necessary vacation.

Today is my birthday again.

It is quieter now.

Not empty. Just… spacious.

I took a walk on the path Terry and I built in the backyard. We were very proud of that path. It curves a bit more than it needs to, which we decided made it charming rather than inefficient. A practical design choice, if you ask us.

We built it for small walks. Slow ones. The kind where you notice things.

The trees were in bloom today, white blossoms scattered like they had somewhere better to be but decided to stay anyway. The sky was deep, confident blue. The wind moved through like it had a job to do. The chimes agreed.

Nature provided generous company.

And I did not feel alone.

That surprised me, just a little.

I could almost hear Terry beside me, commenting on the curve of the path, or pointing out something I had already seen but now needed to see again properly. He had a way of doing that. Improving the view without changing it.

We walked together.

Or something very close to it.

I am grateful for this day. For breath, for blossoms, for the sound of wind that does not require translation. For a path that still holds two sets of footsteps, even if only one is visible.

And for Terry.

Because I can still hear him, clear as ever.

“Honey, you are never alone.”

That feels about right.

Shall we keep walking?