traveling light

"Monday was a good day," Rich says, and yawns. It's about 7:30, and he's ready for sleep.

It's not because he remembers the details. He doesn't remember that one of his graduate students successfully defended his dissertation today, and came to Hospice bearing Champagne and cake, celebrating with Rich and accompanying friends and faculty.

He doesn't remember the singer who performed in the Hospice concert a month ago, and who made him cry, and today returned to perform just for him, and he smiled and even sang along a bit -- and as soon as she left, said how wonderful she was playing the harp (which she did not have).

But what matters is that Rich has bravely given up the fight. The assaults of anger and frustration are over, the illusion of walking home are gone.

He gestures to his toiletry kit, where he once stuffed his cellphone, toothbrush, toothpaste, assorted food, the nurse's call bell.

"Don't have much..."

He says more, but I can't hear. His voice is weak, a whisper. He repeats, for me.

"...in my kit now. Only chocolate."

"You're traveling light," I say.

He nods, smiling.

"All you need is chocolate and lots of love, and you have lots of both," I say.

He smiles again.

A good day? Not too long ago, both of us would have been terrified to consider this: His body mostly frozen with paralysis and swollen with neurological edema, his mind grasping little, no more hope in sight.

Except that Rich is leaving in the peace that was -- is -- our love, before and through all of this, and that will remain, even when his body is gone.

That will not be a good day, because I still love him so much. But my kit, too, is almost empty.

Candace