Now that the pain in my feet has receded, I'm beginning to get excited about our upcoming adventure. It was well worth delaying the launch until I felt better. We'll be hitting the road on Sunday morning and stopping at Saint Joseph's Cemetery in Medway, the town I grew up in, on the way to the Cape. It's the 53rd anniversary of my mother's death—December 19, 1968. I was seven that Christmas, the youngest of nine.
The plan was always to stop at Saint Joseph's to say some prayers at Jack and Isabel's graves. However, this new date feels even more appropriate.
I told my friend Heidi today that it feels like several lifetimes ago. I remember the holiday seasons leading up to 1968 being pure enchantment. At least to the youngest in the family. Those that followed? Well, I don't recall much about them. That's not surprising, I suppose.
A few years back, I visited a medium across the Maine border on a lark. A friend had seen her and raved about it.
“You should go!”
“I’m not really into that …
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Tom Ryan, Author to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.