My husband had to make a plane on Saturday and it took us over two hours to drive the 50 miles to the airport from our house. We took a couple detours around accidents that stopped traffic but we were still reduced to an agonizing crawl for most of the way.
Down here in Dixie we don’t do winter precipitation well. A half inch of snow calls for a complete city shutdown and ice means days trapped inside our homes.
Northerners laugh at us slip-sliding across the interstate but how are you supposed to travel on snow and ice when you don’t have the equipment necessary to make the journey?
Even snow tires don’t matter when you hit black ice.
As I watch the sun melt the remains of our latest winter “storm” I’m reminded of at least one reason this journey of child loss is so. very. difficult.
There is nothing that can prepare you for it. No way to suit up or grab gear or train for burying your child.
It’s treacherous travel and there’s no opting out.
You can’t wait a few hours or a day or a week and rearrange your schedule. You are dropped right down in the valley and forced to keep moving.
And the whole way is black ice-slick and scary.
You are in a spin before you know it, panicked and trying to straighten out without crashing.
I haven’t crashed.
It’s good to be reminded every once in awhile that all things considered, I’m doing pretty well.
I am making progress-slow, slow progress-but I’m still on the road.