The Last Time

I took the First Avenue exit off 55 and headed north. Traffic was light, but we weren't in a hurry. You were being re-admitted to the hospital. We felt defeated, but didn't talk about defeat. Hopeless, but not yet willing to admit that all hope was gone.

You were tall and always seemed to fold into the Honda, even with the seat slid back as far as it would go. I tucked my hand along the edge of the seat, near your thigh. Left hand gripping the wheel, I steered the car through the gentle curves. We passed the entrance to Brookfield Zoo, stopping at the light. And when I turned and looked at you, I knew.

This is the last time we will make this drive together.