Human-Connection
I pulled into the visitor’s parking lot at Devil’s Tower National Monument and noticed there were only a couple of spaces left. A small car followed behind me as I made my way toward the open spots. We both pulled in. Full house.
The Tower loomed overhead, its ancient form quietly transcending and silencing the stream of thoughts running through my mind.
I creaked out of the van, my legs tingling in that relieved, grateful way they do after a long drive. The woman from the car beside me stepped out too. We both stretched, eyes drawn upward to the Tower. We exchanged a brief smile; a shared nod of luck at having found parking in the nick of time.
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I stood in the breakfast room of a weathered motel in Amarillo, waiting impatiently for the coffee maker to finish its cycle. I had no real schedule that day, no urgent destination; just a restless need to move. This was the return leg of a cross-country trip, a journey that had started as a favor to a family member and turned into a chance to explore before heading home to work and routine.
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At the beginning of the week, I found myself staring at a dozen bottles of medication. They weren’t mine. They belonged to my mother, who had moved in with us about two years ago. Her dementia had been progressing steadily, and each week brought small but unmistakable changes.
Some days were good. She’d pass the time reminiscing, reading, or watching for deer out the window. Other days were harder. On those days, she became painfully aware of what she was losing; her memory, her independence. And her tears came easily. It was heartbreaking to watch, especially knowing we couldn’t fix it. We had to learn, slowly and painfully, to simply be there with her. Acceptance didn’t come quickly. It came through shared tears and quiet moments.
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Imagine you’re driving home late at night.
The rain falls steadily, blurring the fading lines on the road.
You’re alone, feeling content, but needing to concentrate just a little harder than usual.
Your phone lies on the passenger seat next to you.
As you approach a sharp curve, it dings. A text message.
Your hand moves instinctively toward it, then stops.
You want to stay focused.
Moments later, it dings again.
And again.
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Imagine you’re at a grocery store, rushing to pick up a few things on your way home from work.
You roll your cart down the frozen food aisle, thinking it might be a good idea to grab something quick and easy for dinner. As you weigh your options among the overpriced microwave meals, you notice a woman slowly pushing her cart nearby. She’s just disconnected from a phone call and looks deeply troubled.
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