For three years, I traveled home by bus for the Christmas holidays. My sister thought I was crazy to put myself through the emotions this trip caused. Dad offered to buy my plane ticket, not understanding that money wasn't the issue. The trip was my tribute to the sweet baby who was no longer mine, and I needed to make the journey in this way. Honoring her memory settled my soul and made me feel close to her in a way that I couldn't when I had to concentrate on driving.

 

Some said it was morbid to retrace the route to my hometown in the Rockies; to travel the same roads I'd traveled with her inside of me. But I relished the trip as a way of renewing my wavering belief that the choice I'd made was the right one.

 

In the middle of my sophomore year at a small midwestern college, I wasn't the right person to give her the best in life. Although I was sure of my love for her, I knew I couldn't provide her with a stable life. So I'd returned to the sanctuary of my parents' home for the last six weeks of my pregnancy... 

 

Suddenly, the bus rattled through a pothole, and I was jostled from my reverie, taking a look outside. The afternoon sun shone weakly through low gray clouds that threatened snow before the night was over. The prairie grass was brown and matted, lying low as if hugging the ground for warmth.

 

The traffic alongside the bus had increased, which meant we were approaching another town. The repetition of short stops and cookie-cutter bus stations was soothing. I liked knowing that not too many miles farther along the road would be a well-lit, warm room where I could stretch my legs and buy a cup of cocoa. Read More