7:55 pm

It's not only 18ths, not only Wednesdays, or even the months of August. On any given day, I wait for 7:55 pm.

Years past, I have intuitively known where I will be called tomorrow. I was led back to our river last year in a sort of divine haze - that buried place in my soul desperately and numbly following unconscious memories, creating a plan outside the knowledge and acceptance of my rational mind, which screamed to me of fear, whimsy, and foolishness.

That healing journey was exactly what I thought it couldn't be, but somehow knew it would be. The searching is over. The bad parts are easy to remember; recreating the good last year gave me closure. Priceless closure. How do I ever thank you, Jean, for being at my side that day, and helping me find that?

I don't think I'll be beside I-35, mile marker 152, tomorrow. I might not even need to go over the accident report or look at the pictures. I might be at the Namekagon and St. Croix rivers, smiling at memory.

Maybe I should conquer the last frontier. I was made a promise that day that I'd see the BWCA and North Shore for the first time with him. Have I thought that I'd be a traitor, or that my heart would break more than it already has, to go without him? There will always be crushing sadness. But there's no more bad that I can find.
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I used to think I was in control of my life. Now I see that I cannot predict its course and that I am not invulnerable to death and pain. On my better days, my grief does not isolate me but opens me to the world. I see that my hurt is not made inconsequential by the war, genocide, and rape that exist, but rather connects me to all who suffer. I shed my self-pity and find I am no longer alone. - Deborah Good