As I drove down the gravel driveway, the headlights cutting through the sleet, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I thought about the man Travis used to be.
We met at a county fair. He was wearing a Stetson he couldn’t afford and I was eating cotton candy I didn’t want. He was the strongest man I’d ever seen. He could lift a transmission by himself. He could calm a spooked stallion with a whisper.
He was the protector. The provider. The rock.
But Alzheimer’s doesn’t care how strong you are. It’s a thief that steals you one memory at a time. First, it took his ability to drive. Then, it took the names of our grandchildren. Last week, it took the knowledge of how to use a fork.
People tell me, “Elise, you’re a saint for taking care of him.”
I’m not a saint. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m grieving a man who is still standing right in front of me.
I spotted them a mile down the road, near the frozen creek bed.
Travis was on the ground. He wasn’t moving.
I slammed the truck into park and scrambled down the embankment, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
