Endings, middles, maybe beginnings

And just like that, I reached the end of my notebook.
Didn’t see it coming.
I thought there were pages left,
but they were full of notes from a work meeting –
 notes I apparently felt compelled to take
 (or to be seen taking)
 in the book I happened to have on hand -
 notes I never looked at again.

I didn’t get around to buying a replacement;
I thought I had more time.
And now I can’t because it’s not “essential”
and we’re back to that again…
  trapped at home,
  awaiting test results,
  running room service for two
  quarantined teens.

So I’m writing in an ugly, wrong-sized book
once used as a travel journal
for our European family vacation.
(That vacation we took when my husband
was sure he’d be dead in two years,
and wanted to create amazing memories
for the kids to remember him by.)
Pages at the front detail a month of marvellous adventures --
  croissants at French campgrounds
  Kinky Boots in London
  cruise ship pampering
  and Edinburgh Fringe…

Then… hidden in the middle pages,
secret entries of how I really felt --
  alone in the Amsterdam crowds,
  estranged from family at the dinner table,
  heartsick,
  lonely, and
  utterly depressed.

And now that we’re past the cancer and the burnout
I wish we could have a do-over
on that whole cursed, wonderful trip.
But life moves on...
the money’s needed for university,
and the kids have summer jobs;
  instead I guess we’ll just make do
  with a wilderness canoe trip for two.