By Sandy Wilson
Our fourteen-year voyage has ended in this hospice. You are at peace.
I imagine that I am standing on the deck of a sailing ship that has passed through a great storm. The masts have fallen; the sails and rigging float in the now-still sea. You, our navigator, have gone, the charts mapping our future blown away, our dreams scattered in the winds.
There are no stars above; nor land in sight. I am lost in this vast, endless, sea. But I must move on to my first port of call: To tell our daughter her mother has died.