Crunch, Crunch, Crunch

 One of my earliest memories is mortal terror. Lying in my bed, in the dark, in Phoenix, Arizona, listening to the thump, thump, thump of my pulse as my ear lay against my pillow. It came with a clear mental image or a feeling of walking in the dark in the snow. Each pulse beat a crunch, crunch, crunch as I walked.  I couldn't bear to hear it.

This must have been shortly after I learned about mortality because I was consumed with anxiety to listen to it (and if I am being honest, other nights since). This was me, this was my life, this fragile thing, this crunch, crunch, crunch through the snow, alone in the dark, walking towards nothing. That big nothing.

I called for my mother, who assured me it would be a long time from now and prayed with me, as good mothers do.

Five nights ago, I hugged my mother good night and told her I loved her and felt her sob quietly, in mortal terror of surgery the next day. And I have every night since sat with her in the ICU, as she faces her own walk through the snow.

I don't know what we walk towards, but we don't walk alone.