Every morning, I look in on my sleeping boy before closing his door to hide him from the hall light. Every morning, it’s the same: crazy hair, steady breaths, peaceful dreams. Every morning, my mom-heart is still so happy to see him in those pre-sun hours, living the way a boy should live.
This morning the silence was split by a screeching siren as the ambulance flew past my house to the hospital. This morning, someone’s mom or grandpa or child was not where he should be. This morning, someone somewhere is praying for a miracle. I cannot imagine.
Behold: healthy children.
Such a treasure. Dear, dear treasure.