I woke up next to her this morning. I let her sleep with me the nights her daddy is gone. Her eyes are closed and her chest rises and falls with each soft breath.
She awakes each morning with a halo of curls. The fuzzy soft waves blur the lines of her face against the pillow. I miss seeing them. I’m gone for work each morning, now.
She snuggles deeper into the warmth of my bed and comes to rest.
“I’m OK, Mom.” She says softly. Her eyes still closed.
How different this was last time. She was only a a year and a half. I still put her to bed with a bottle. She wobbled and fell when she walked too quickly. Each sentence she spoke was a puzzle to be found out.
And now, now she can read minds.
I slip out of bed to make some tea and she comes to find me in the kitchen for her own.
I do the chemotherapy drops and wait, before we return to bed. I can still read, so far, this round and I take out a book. She puts on a cartoon, one she’s seen hundreds of times, and mouths along with the words.
I can’t take my eyes off her and they begin to fill with tears.
And if she’s OK–I’m OK.
I can’t worry about tomorrow. I have to know that today, we’re OK. That today is in my control and tomorrow never has been.
Oh, how different it is this time.
And I thank Him. I thank God.
For this time.
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