The Week Before the Wheels Turn.

 The Week Before the Wheels Turn

It’s our last week before the journey begins.

Saturday, we set off — a new chapter, a new way of living. The wheels will start turning, both on the road and in life, and yet… I don’t feel ready.

Truth is, I’m not sure one can ever be fully ready for a life shift of this size. Especially not when you’re still coughing your lungs out and battling both germs and ghosts.

There’s a chorus of voices in my head lately. The anxious ones. The ones that whisper at 2AM:

Who in her right mind walks away from a stable job to go “camping” with an old woman?

What are you doing?

What if it all goes wrong?

I’ve decided not to listen to them anymore.

I’ve made my choice, and I’m holding fast to the reason behind it: my mother.

This stretch of life — this unpredictable, messy, sacred stretch — is hers. She is 87. And though death comes when it pleases, not by calendar, the signs are there. She tires more easily. She snaps sometimes. She forgets. Her hearing is fading. And in the quiet moments, I can feel it too: the last pages turning slowly.

So, no — we won’t have a set route or itinerary. No five-year plan. No to-do list etched in stone. We’re going to wing it. Float with the wind a little. I’m laying down my fear and taking up something else: the mantle of protector, carer, maybe even witness.

How does she see it, this wild adventure of ours?

She’s thrilled. Giddy, even. She tells everyone who’ll listen that she asked God for this. Just one last wish: a month of camping, of breathing clean air, of meeting people who won’t grow tired of her stories. She wants a seat by the fire, where she can talk and laugh and watch the sun set with no more chores, no more burdens. That’s all on me now.

And honestly? That’s okay.

This one’s for her.

Maybe one day I’ll write the full story of her life — the pain, the grit, the soft little victories she still doesn’t know she earned. But for now, I’ll write this chapter with her. On the road. Under open skies.