6 hours

We leave moments after the caregiver arrives.  Friday.  11 a.m.   I feel relieved to go and guilty at the same time.

He takes the long way around to the coast.  We drive for two hours through beauty that should be enjoyed and photographed, but I keep nodding off.  No pictures.  No conversation. I am tired and I hate that I can’t keep my eyes open.

We stop in Reedsport at an odd little bakery that makes me wonder how they pass health department inspections.  But I don’t care.  They make maple bars that are worth the drive.  After one of those and a bad cup of coffee, my eyes are finally open.

We drive around town, then north up the coast to Florence.  A quick stop for a burger.  A chance meeting of an old friend.  And now we’re headed home.

I start rambling about how fun to see Maggie, the great maple bar and sorry for falling asleep, but he says nothing.  He knows I babble when I’m tired, stressed, a mess.  Then he says he loves that drive.  That he thinks he could do that every week.  I’m relieved.

We’re home before 5 p.m.

I’m grateful for 6 hours of no demands and no expectations.

Thankful for a partner who just likes to drive.

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