Mother will be ninety in May. A few weeks ago, my youngest sister asked if she had a bucket list.
“Not really,” she answered. “I’ve seen London, Dublin, New York City, and San Francisco. I’ve been to Canada, Mexico, and lots of the United States. I’ve worked as a teacher and in a cemetery. I’ve seen my name and art on the cover of a book. I’ve been married and had five children, then had lots of years on my own since your daddy died. I’ve been lucky and gotten to do so many things I only dreamed of growing up in The Depression in Cuthand, Texas. I guess the only thing I’ve been thinking about is taking a trip on Amtrak.”
That didn’t sound like much of a hill to climb. I called a very dear family member we’d both been wanting to visit for a while and wangled an invitation. We invited my sister-in-law, Shirley, which ensured a great time. After checking the dates with everybody, I got the tickets. About a week before we were to leave, Mother called.
“Have you already bought those tickets? It’s really not a good time for me to go before Christmas. I’d rather not spend the money right now and I haven’t done any shopping. Can you get your money back? Could we schedule it sometime later?”