It must have been March 7 or 8, 2020. We drove near the airport at Lelystad, on our way home.
The sun was shining brightly, but it still felt chilly. Yet in the distance you could already see a bright glow of budding leaves on adorning the trees.
"Look at this!", I shouted.
On a meadow next to a small farm, a flock of storks pecked in the grass. We stopped. I counted seventeen! The stork brings babies and… good luck, they say in Bulgaria. So many??
This turned out to be our last ride.
If I'd known that then, I wouldn't have wanted to sleep another hour, so as not to miss anything. His heavy breath at night, the monotonous locomotive-like hum of the oxygen concentrator in the adjoining room.
If only I could put my hand on his forehead again!