On January 18, 1989, my husband died. In a matter of seconds, I went from living in the light to walking in the dark.
And I’ve always been afraid of the dark.
I can give no compelling reason for my fear, but it’s there. As a child, I went to sleep with a night-light. At night I still keep the bathroom light on and leave the door slightly open. When I enter our home, I hit the light switches; the more the better. No one will ever find me walking through a pitch-black field or along an unlit beach.
It’s not just the physical darkness. I also strongly dislike being “kept in the dark.” I’m one of those people who reads the first chapter of a book to get the plot and then immediately skips over to the final chapter. Something in me has to know how everything turns out. Only then can I enjoy the middle of the book.
On that day in 1989, I began a walk having no idea how or where it would end, or how long it would take. I couldn’t have prepared for...