The box was a fitting symbol: Dull brown, rectangular, corners glued and stapled. The cover tight, preserving.
The card said, “So sorry” and brought a momentary sigh and flow of tears.
What offers more relief: A plain Old Fashioned 1910 English Muffin, or a cinnamon roll? Belgian waffles drenched in Pure Maine Maple syrup, or a spoonful of Tart Cherry Preserves spread over a Honey Wheat English Muffin?
Does a soul pass more gently following a salute with a slice of Apple Loaf Cake or
French toast made with slabs of Old Fashioned English Muffin Bread?
The hill is small by such standards: A hundred-foot rise over a quarter-mile. A gentle turn then another smaller rise to a long, flat straight-away.
After two years of aches and pains, surgeries and doubts, would the hill be too great a challenge?
What would cry out first: The ankle with a damaged Achilles, the wrenched knee? Would the ghost of tendonitis rise from a foot joint? Would the legs weakened by inactivity falter?
How many steps tread away the pain of parting?
How many steps loosen the uncertain grip of sadness and the dark dread of ending?
What’s left is space.
We fill it with what’s at hand.
Love can be recalled, unhappiness expelled.
The hill can be conquered. Foot pain be damned.
The Wolferman’s eaten.
Darkness becomes light.