A thermos of tomato soup sits in the cup holder.
Trees become a blur outside my window as we make our way across the Pike from Boston.
I take note of the wispy clouds in the azure sky.
Usually I can’t truly appreciate the view because I am the in the driver’s seat, focusing on the cars in front of me.
This Thanksgiving I am in the passenger seat.
I am the one handing items to our three children in the back.
I’ve given up a few things I am not so good at night now, things that take too much energy or cause pain.
I wear big sunglasses to shield me from the bright glare.
More than once on this trip they’ve hidden hot tears when a gentle song comes on the radio about love and missing someone you care about.
We talk about next year.
We talk about the trip we’ll make to see family again.
I nod, I say, “Of course.”
I do not protest.
But the voice inside my head wonders if they are pipe dreams, if I will actually be able to do that.
Cancer is in the driver’s seat on this trip.
But I hope it won’t be for long.