Green Hills Every Time

It's April. You probably knew that. It's a hard month to forget, starting with the fools on the first, but mostly because the green makes me remember.

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It starts in March, really. And I remember driving. 

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Bob and I would wind our way through the hills to chemo, or the emergency room, or appointments, and the green would make me feel safe. 

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His initial diagnosis was in March of 2009. And that green—I hung onto it with white knuckles.

Out the Car Window

It was my meditation as we would drive our familiar route from home to Kaiser. Then home to Stanford. Then home to whichever hospital could get us in the soonest. It was my meditation to look out at those green hills at just breathe. Take pictures. Be still. And breathe.

He died three years ago this April, and I still remember driving those green hills that spring. To the airports for trips to carry me away, to the family and friends who just let us be us. 

April hills

And as I wind my way from the place we now call home, back to the ranch, I am folded into those green hills again, each year, each spring, and I remember feeling safe, and knowing I would be okay. I will be okay. I am okay.

So I apologize to the line of impatient people who couldn't understand why I was only doing 5-15 mph over the posted speed limit on my way to the ranch this afternoon when y'all were in a rush to get home from work on the backroads. You were in my Happy Place, and y'all need to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Some day those hills might save you, too. Until then, just slow the fuck down. I've seen enough accidents on those roads to last me. Nothing is worth that kind of hurry.