on the road again

I love driving, I really do, but I'm glad to have my butt back in the chair this morning.  I had a road trip yesterday, up to see my folks; Dad went to his oncologist, and while he's still symptom-free and in no pain, he has incurable cancer.  (This is a long-ish post, just so you know.)

A bright pink-orange morning dawns from my window; yesterday I saw this on an abandoned freeway in the middle of Northern California.  I got an early start; I love speeding over tarmac, tunes blasting until suddenly they didn't!  My stereo blanked out about halfway up, and I felt stuck in the middle of darkness, the large display still, black, and the day was barely beginning.  Sometimes I feel I get two mornings, the dark and the light.  The sky glows a stunning peach, transitioning to no longer dark, but not blue and bright.  It's cold out this morning, was cold out yesterday too.  I needed to stop for the loo, but kept driving, not wishing to freeze, even if it meant stopping the car, maybe getting my music back.  Finally my travel mug of tea got the better of me; I pulled over at a rest stop, shivering in the brisk January air, chipper birds tweeting as I strode past.  Then hopped back in my car, called Bob, noting that the hushed stereo was now functional again.  But the sun was nearly up, the horizon altering just as it is now, moving from night to day.  Right now my view is limited to a strip of sky between the bottom of the back awning and our neighbor's house, but yesterday it was enormous, expansive, unlimited.  How life is when we start out, but days chip away at what time we have, our allotment.  My dad's remaining days are qualified, but then really, so are mine, what his doc noted.  Dad might have a couple of years, or he might get hit by a bus tomorrow.  Dad, Mom and I chuckled, all of us with a pretty clear view of a stark diagnosis.  No one lives forever.

As I continued my drive north, tunes blasting away again, I noted a faint orange line at the edge of the eastern landscape.  To my left, the west was still dark, but not black.  As miles and minutes ticked past, daylight emerged, bringing me closer to my hometown, to a place I'm drawn for my parents, my sister Lynn.  Not my kids, they don't live there anymore, and one day...  Well, it's always changing.  My Uncle Mike passed away over the weekend, Mom's older brother.  Mike was my dad's age, a truly amazing man, nearly sixty-eight years old, which might seem young-ish, but Uncle Mike had Downs syndrome, and his advanced age was rare.  Mom called over the weekend with the news; Mike had been ill for a while, cancer recently discovered.  Mom and her sisters wanted to let him go peacefully, and he did, but I recall him at my brother Patrick's wedding back in 2005; Mike loved to dance, and did so, all evening long, with all whom he asked.  He loved dancing, cowboy hats too.  Bob and I will be making another trek north in a few days for his service, more driving for me in this past week than in ages!

As I look up, the orange glow is gone.  White-blue sky slips behind the hummingbird feeder, one small bird perched; it's nearly empty, I need to fill it today.  Before Mom called with the news about Uncle Mike, I was telling Bob how much Thea's wedding meant to me, not only for the actual ceremony, but the party afterwards.  Now that she has the dress, that reception is in my thoughts, but I prefer to think of it as a party (not quite so overwhelming).  The last time all my family got together for such a bash was Patrick and Marie's wedding, in 2005, goodness that's a few years!  Uncle Mike was in a jovial mood, my dad looked like Marlon Brando on his child's wedding day, and my kids were his only grandchildren.  Now there's Bea and C.J. and T1 and T2, all of whom will be in Thea's wedding!  I was telling Bob how cool it will be to have my family and his family all together, celebrating.  I'll see Patrick and Lynn, maybe not Sis and her girls, at Uncle Mike's service.  Much nicer to gather for a wedding.

The days slip past, one after another, and we don't necessarily get to choose the timing of such gatherings. Dad will be fine for Thea's summer nuptials, but none of the other grandkids will be getting hitched soon, no immediate graduations on the calendar.  Just Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, holidays that come and go without regard for who is present.  Why making the most of each day is vital; you never know what's waiting ahead.

I think back to dancing with Uncle Mike, his wide, excited smile pleased to speak all he had trouble saying.  Mike couldn't enunciate all his thoughts, but they traveled in other ways, for many years.  My dad is gabby, one of my joys from yesterday.  After the doc has his words, Mom was off to sort Mike's service, but Dad and I chatted, well Dad chatted.  My dad can talk your ear off, and I sat and listened.  No more dancing with Uncle Mike, but my dad's still a chatter-bug, looking forward to Thea's wedding, speaking of pictures for me to go through; he's starting to think ahead, getting things sorted.  Not in a maudlin way, more in just being aware.  Time is fleeting, we just don't know.

Approaching the Benecia Bridge last night, I watched another day end.  To the west, a streaked peach sky beckoned, fiery blood-orange pink all I could see.  Traffic was heavy, it was after five p.m., but I sneaked glances as I drove, reaching the bridge.  The sunset lingered over my right shoulder, out of my view, but I kept peeking, grateful for the beauty, thankful to be less than an hour from home, Bob waiting for me.  I left Silicon Valley under darkness yesterday, returned in that same cover, but so much occurred between those hours.  This morning more tunes waft, memories too, some from 2005, others with the blush of sleep hovering.  A bittersweet symphony is life, but so beautiful, at times achingly short, stretching over motorways and dance floors as bright and magical as the sunrise, as the sunset.  But for now, words are waiting, revisions lurking, tea calling my name.  The days are whispery like a hummingbirds' wings, also just as enduring.