This last uphill is a long one but I will be walking it.

Dear Sweetheart,

Like we agreed for your next ride, I pressed and laid out one of your favorite bike shirts—the one you bought at a flea market on the east coast of Vermont, tie dyed by a biker dude. You always wore unfashionably bright shirts so motorists saw us. Then I searched wildly for your bike shorts, the ones with detachable legs, so you can wear them in heat or cold weather appropriate for Venus or Mars. Remember our last bike ride together in the Fall? It was in the 50's, I was freezing but it was beautiful—an old favorite ride—down 116 to Bristol then up along the Bristol Pond to Monkton, then back around to Starksboro—where we had first begun. Air, crisp, sky even crisper, hills donning their colors. But I couldn't find your bike shorts so I sent your brother-in-law on a wild goose chase, until looking for your bike sandals, I found them out of place (so unlike you) in with your shoes.

I've been trying unsuccessfully to write your obituary. I get to the point about Peter and how he inherited your curiosity, your mastery of music, and love of adventure and travel, and of Pat how he inherited your love of children and of snow, and reading, alongside your business acumen, and how Tegan has inherited your kindness, creativity, and ability to fix things, to be fearless and fight for right. And then I can go no further.

We (your sisters, my sister, and Tegan) sit here monitoring your every breath. They are shallow and raspy now. Cathy and I turn you so your body does not bruise any worse. I bathe you in Dr. Teal's Epsom Salt infused water smelling of eucalyptus and spearmint—meant to relax you. But you reach out for our arms, wanting to rise, wanting to go. Tegan frets and worries and plays for you the ukelei—the one I bought you many moons ago on our first trip together to Maine. The dogs fret alongside her, turning to Tegan, your sisters or mine. They take turns at night sleeping with us ever so gently aware and sad. 

Your boys call and talk to you though now you can no longer respond. They told you about your new grandson Enzo, a derivative of Vincenzo, your grandfather, whom you were given his American name, James, when he immigrated from Italy, so as Peter pointed out, in a way Enzo's named after you. You reached for the phone that day and your eyes opened. No longer now.

I'm speaking to you from my soul to yours, holding you gently, keeping you as comfortable as I can, every hour meds, every few hours turn, every quiet moment with tears. It is just so hard to say goodbye.

I love you for ever and then again.