It occurred to me the other day that this journey–like many journeys in life–is all about making choices. Each choice becomes its own destination–its own little postcard moment. Some of the choices are pretty routine–when to eat, what to eat, where to eat for example. When L was alive we sat at the dining room table (more spacious and a better view than our small kitchen table) every evening somewhere around six. The meal was well-rounded–meat (usually chicken), rice or potato, veggie, salad. If there was going to be dessert it came later as we watched TV. Up until about 2 yrs. ago L might have made the meal–when he retired (at age 50 because his health was beginning to fail even then) and I went to work (mostly for the health insurance) he made supper three nights a week. It was the only meal of the day we shared (altho he was dedicated to eating three well-rounded meals a day). Over supper we would talk about all the things that had happened that day–in the world, in the workplace, in the neighborhood, among friends, and most of all with us. We never ever lacked for conversation. Now that I am alone I find I need to make different choices. These days the dining room table is often covered with some project I’m working on–bills and bank statements and such that need attention; my latest writing project; lists I need to make to be sure I take care of everything now that he’s not here to remind me or handle it himself. So I don’t so much eat as I graze–a slice of cheese or some carrots with hummus, or a bowl of soup or sometimes something I pick up at the store. Blessedly I go out with friends at least once a week for a “real” meal. But altho I thought when this all began that eventually I would settle into some kind of routine for eating normal meals again, I can see that this is unlikely. The choice has been made–not the best choice perhaps but one that for now works for me.