Editor's Choice
Driving the interstate with my invalid wife, her wheelchair in the trunk.
“Can we stop? I’ve got to go.”
There’s a gas station. We stop, unfold the wheelchair, transfer her to it, wheel into the station, into the old, worn Ladies, Paper towels litter the floor, but otherwise it’s sanitary. I transfer her to the toilet, successfully, then the sink. She washes her hands in the cold water. Her face bursts with a smile for me, the first of the day:
“Well, here we are!”
“Yes!” I smile back.
Back on the road.
“I’ll always remember that.”
She: “Me too.”
“Can we stop? I’ve got to go.”
There’s a gas station. We stop, unfold the wheelchair, transfer her to it, wheel into the station, into the old, worn Ladies, Paper towels litter the floor, but otherwise it’s sanitary. I transfer her to the toilet, successfully, then the sink. She washes her hands in the cold water. Her face bursts with a smile for me, the first of the day:
“Well, here we are!”
“Yes!” I smile back.
Back on the road.
“I’ll always remember that.”
She: “Me too.”
