I stared at a line.
A simple black slash on a crisp piece of white paper.
I looked at my husband's signature scrawled confidently on the line next to mine. He hadn't paused. No reservations. Confident as always.
My line was empty. I needed a moment.
I would sign my name. I would be stout. I needed a moment though.
A moment to grieve.
A moment to hope.
I didn't have to look up to notice the pause. Even though I was not stout, I signed.
The contractor whisked the paperwork out from under my hovered pen and shuffled it in the rest. I would take my moment later. I always take my moments later. Chatter began about getting permits and when we could expect the first drop of concrete to be poured. The wheels were finally in motion to build the in-law suite. From now on there will always need to be seven plates prepared for dinner. Doctor appointments will reside on the calendar next to play dates. The whirr of a oxygen machine will keep time with sounds of a cartoon. I will hold my daughter's hand as she walks into her first day of Kindergarten just as I will hold my in-laws hands as they face surgery or a confused moment.
This is a journey in life.
We are always on a path towards the end. This is where two separate paths will converge. We will be on this path together now.
Those lines on that piece of paper are weighted down by our signatures now. The responsibility is now on us.
I will be stout.
I will still need a moment.
*I also wrote here about this for Studio 30 Plus Magazine