Last night, I sat at our monthly writers’ group, barely able to stay awake. After two days of traveling to speaking engagements, exhaustion weighing on my shoulders and eyelids. Finally, too tired to follow the conversation and critiques, I excused myself and went home.
A spirited internal debate kept me awake for the drive home. The government side proclaimed, “Traveling was the right thing to do.”
The opposition sliced that argument to bits. “The trip was a waste of time. Monday night’s engagement was poorly attended.”
“Only because of bad weather,” the government countered.
The opposition ignored the outbreak and continued. “And Tuesday at the lunch meeting, all the women were over the age of 60. Not even the right audience for you book. For effective marketing, you should focus only on potential readers. Stop wasting your time.”
I steered the car up our driveway and declared the opposition the winner. My efforts over the last two days had resulted in a fog of exhaustion, nothing more. What was I doing, frittering away precious days like this?
A good night’s sleep didn’t improve my outlook. Discouragement dogged my steps as I began my morning walk. So did the faces of two women who’d introduced themselves after I spoke.
“Thank you for telling your stories,” one said. “I lost my husband earlier this year. And today’s been a bad day.”
“How long were you married?” I asked.
“62 years.” Tears filled her eyes. “I hoped to make it through the meeting without crying.” She squeezed my hand and hurried away.
“This is the first time I’ve been here since my husband died two months ago,” the other woman confided.
“How long were you married?” I asked again.
“67 years. And I’m not complaining,” she added with a smile. “I’m not worried about where he is. Over and over he said he knew where he was going.” Tears wet her smile. “But he didn’t tell me how lonely it would be without him.”
I blinked away tears and looked around, orienting myself before walking any farther. Ah, the soybean field. Then I did a double take. The plants were gone, the field harvested. The vines and lovely purple flowers twining up the bean stalks and captured by my camera a few days earlier were no more. To think I had almost walked past them on Monday. If I hadn’t retraced my steps, the picture would have been lost.
My eyes spied a puddle of purple in the bean stubble. I pulled out my camera, and in the viewfinder saw the faces of two women. Perhaps, I thought as the camera focused, the opposition hasn’t won the debate. Perhaps the trip was not a waste of time.
