We bought umbrellas. We enjoyed the rain. Mist glazed our cheeks. She wore gloves. I didn’t. We walked. There’s purpose to my wife’s gait; the caregiver. I mosey without focus; the patient. I strive to keep pace. I do, barely. Her will pulls me forward.
Along the Willamette, on Waterfront Park, we marvel at the bridges. We listen to the clatter of traffic. Geese, gulls, and ducks traverse the flyway. One brisk winter day, the river runs swift and clear. After a storm, it’s muddied and swifter still.
Downtown, cars splash water to the curbs. Their head lights glisten on damp pavement. We side step puddles. A mush of leaves clogs the gutters. Our hotel is in The Pearl. Lovejoy, Northrup, and Glisan: the poetry of street names. Restaurants, apartments, homeless enclaves, the singular Powell’s, and everyone going somewhere, or not.
We venture out to movies. We wander through the district. At times, I am in awe of the city’s ambience. How does all this work? But chemo cloaks me in tattered indifference. A thread of healing weaves its way into my future’s fabric. What will that look like? We return to the hotel. I’m full of medicine’s magic potions. Patience is the antidote. It’s a New Year.