The following is the next in the series of excerpts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.
Just to write it makes me happy. Yesterday was sunny and 70 degrees and today will be just like it. Enough breeze to move the chimes to song and loud with birdsong.
I can breathe.
On days like this, I want to live forever—to feel a gentle sun and the breeze on winterweary skin. I forget we are immortal, that even now my body is wearing out, that I will have a new life in time, that a new earth and new heaven wait. But I can’t imagine it now.
And maybe I don’t need to. Not yet.