Get me to the morning.

Nic has gone camping, in the cold, with his cousins.

I am home at night, for the first time in my life, at the helm, with a baby.

He’s been gone a mere 6 hours at this point, and yet I’ve traveled a thousand miles. I’ve toyed with a thousand scenarios, as a thousand loves have born the fear of a thousand losses.

The couch lulled me into its arms, told me it knew my day was hard. I was drifting, drifting. Then I heard Oliver come to. At once, I am Alert, with a capital A. He is rousing and I will. not. let. him. down. If he needs food, I will provide. A hand on his back, I will place. A song, I can sing. I will be his nightlight.

Lives are plucked from us around the clock. Happy homes suddenly thrown into shock. Missing puzzle pieces, with a 100% guarantee to not be put back together.

To sit with these thoughts is torture. My baby could leave me, fear says, in this ten minutes, or the next. Nic could never make it home. I plan and project, hope and assume. I’ll get tomorrow. We’ll have tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.

We are fires, lit but trembling. Flames so resilient, yet vulnerable to the wind.

Tonight, I will sleep with one eye open, looking out for the sun. Keep him here, bring him back, keep me here. I beg.

But no one has made me promises. No one can.

As I turn down this day, I recall what and that it was. And I ask this night to please get me to the morning.

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