One cup, two chairs and a sky that stayed were waiting outside Room 6 of the Blue Swallow Motel in Tucumcari. She didn’t say much at first, just motioned to the chair beside her and poured a second cup.
It was early, the kind of morning where the sky stretches like it’s remembering how to be beautiful again. Behind the fading neon of old motel signs, amber and rose light slowly unfolded. I hadn’t planned to stop, but something about the stillness asked me to stay.
A cup already warm in her hands, and one waiting. After a few minutes, she spoke. “I lost him a year ago,” she said. “But I still make two cups every morning. It’s the habit, I guess. Or maybe it’s hope.”
There wasn’t a sermon. No clichés. Just two people sharing silence that didn’t demand anything.
Eventually, she told me how they used to drive Route 66 every summer. They’d stop at diners, roadside attractions, all those places where time softens its grip. “We always said we’d come back when we retired,” she added quietly. “But cancer doesn’t wait for the calendar.”
We sat a little longer. Meanwhile, the sky kept unfolding like a slow promise the day hadn’t broken yet.
Before I left, she gave me a soft smile. Not sad. Just real. “Some mornings are heavier than others,” she said. “But the sky keeps showing up. So I do too.”
And that was it. No big moment. No tidy ending. Just two cups, two chairs, and a sky that stayed.
✨ Roadside Reflection: One cup, two chairs, and a sky that stayed
Grief doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it sits beside you quietly, in a plastic chair with a coffee cup. And healing doesn’t always look like moving on. Sometimes it looks like showing up for the sky, one sunrise at a time.
Read More Journal Entries: Journal Page
More about Route 66: History of U.S. Route 66.