And just like that, you are two years old.
Two. Years. Old.
What a full two years it's been, my love.
From the moment you were born, I loved looking into your deep blue eyes and running my fingers through your midnight black hair. Two years later, your eyes have turned to a shade of greenish grey, and your hair has lightened to a milk chocolate brown. Still, you are beautiful beyond words and I catch myself staring at you often, taking you in. Your smile and your spirit stretch to the edges of any room you inhabit, and reach to the corners of my heart.
Your light has been my armor these past two years. Your laugh, the life raft that has pulled me out of some deep moments of grief and into the present.
I want to capture the essence of you in these moments, in these days. These days, filled with beauty and struggle and the ups and downs of toddlerhood.
You are spunky and highly spirited - strong willed, as my mother says. You know what you want, and you let us all know when you're not happy with how things are going. I forget how in-the-moment toddlers are... you swing from ultimate joy to meltdown mode in seconds. And then back to happy again. It's hard to keep up, but we do our best.
You are profoundly kind for a person of your size and experience in this world. You always say "bess you, Mommy" when I sneeze. When Hazel coughs or trips, you instantly attune to her and say "you okay, Hazel?" You bring your sister a drink or a toy at random moments without prompting, and you give the best kisses.
You play hard. You rip books to shreds. I call you my little "tornado," as you move your way through the house, destroying things along the way. I tell myself that the upside to this means you will do things with gusto later in life, tackling fear and launching yourself into new things (just as you fearlessly launch yourself head first down the slide at the playground... deep breaths...).
I will be the cushion for you, my love. Your soft spot to land on.... should you need one, due to all that launching.
I'd like to think that the second time around, we are a bit improved at this parenting gig. But I know we make mistakes. I apologize for the times in the past and the times to come when I lose my patience, or misunderstand, or just don't give as much as I should. I know you will see all of me - all of my humanness. I only hope to be aware enough and brave enough to let you know when I've messed up, and to tell you that I'm so sorry when I let you down.
You, just like your sister, are our teacher. You lead us through the paths you stumble down, skinned knees and all. We follow you, band-aids in hand and steeled hearts and and stand in awe of the tiny person you are becoming.
So tiny, but so huge. You take up space and you light up the world.
Your blossoming relationship with your big sister fills me to the brim with happiness. I know you will love each other forever, even when you hate each other. You are a gift to her, as she is to you. Just don't "borrow" her favorite shoes and then wear them to a muddy outdoor party and then sneak them back into her closet. Trust me. It won't go well.
I am so sad that you only got to know your sweet Papa for four short months before he became ill, and that you won't ever get to know his smile, his wonderful warm hugs, the depth of his love for you. But I know you made him so happy in his final months, weeks, and days, and this will always warm my soul. You are infinitely connected to him. You will learn about him through our stories, our hugs, our pictures, and our own pieces of him that we all carry in our hearts.
Two years, my littlest love. I can't wait to see where you take us in the next two, and the next two, and the next. I wonder what this big world has in store for you. Wherever you go, whenever you launch, whatever happens, we'll be right here.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
The yellow rose
My mom and sister were in town this week, here to celebrate Charlie's second birthday, and also to help take care of the girls while our nanny is out of the country. Before they left, my other sister Sheri asked them to buy me a yellow rose at the store. She didn't say why. When I texted her to thank her and ask what it was for, she told me that I would find out soon.
Today, she sent me this message:
A few weeks ago, I dreamt of Dad. It was my first dream of him since he's been gone. In it, he looked younger, with black hair and those thick rimmed black glasses. He was smiling the way he does where his cheeks get round and his eyes crinkle. He was opening his arms to me, and enveloped me in one of his snug, warm, tight-but-not-too-tight hugs. That hug was filled with his love for me, and it radiated off him, into me. And he was happy, or satisfied, or complete. At peace. As he hugged me, he whispered, "Whenever you see a yellow rose, think of me, and the love I have for you." Even though I'm crying now, I wasn't sad in the dream. I was content. And I felt Dad's love. And I knew that this dream wasn't just for me, but for you, too. Yellow is associated with the sun, with feelings of warmth and caring. Yellow roses send messages of joy, appreciation, and love.
Although I've never been a fan of yellow roses, they now hold a powerful new meaning for me - they remind me of our Dad, his warmth for others, and his love for us.
I'm thinking of you on this Father's Day, and I'm sending you lots of love.
The rose is from Dad.
Love you,
Me
I finished reading and I sat in awe. Tears slid down my round cheeks. And as I smiled, my eyes began to crinkle.
Today, she sent me this message:
A few weeks ago, I dreamt of Dad. It was my first dream of him since he's been gone. In it, he looked younger, with black hair and those thick rimmed black glasses. He was smiling the way he does where his cheeks get round and his eyes crinkle. He was opening his arms to me, and enveloped me in one of his snug, warm, tight-but-not-too-tight hugs. That hug was filled with his love for me, and it radiated off him, into me. And he was happy, or satisfied, or complete. At peace. As he hugged me, he whispered, "Whenever you see a yellow rose, think of me, and the love I have for you." Even though I'm crying now, I wasn't sad in the dream. I was content. And I felt Dad's love. And I knew that this dream wasn't just for me, but for you, too. Yellow is associated with the sun, with feelings of warmth and caring. Yellow roses send messages of joy, appreciation, and love.
Although I've never been a fan of yellow roses, they now hold a powerful new meaning for me - they remind me of our Dad, his warmth for others, and his love for us.
I'm thinking of you on this Father's Day, and I'm sending you lots of love.
The rose is from Dad.
Love you,
Me
I finished reading and I sat in awe. Tears slid down my round cheeks. And as I smiled, my eyes began to crinkle.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
For Dad
Something that I wrote and shared at my Dad's memorial service, 10/25/2014.
_________________________________________________________________________
Using his words, Dad would be "so tickled" to see all of you here, in celebration of his life today.
As you all know, Dad was a sweet and gentle soul. He was kind and extremely affectionate. He loved music, dancing, singing and watching live performances. He was a passionate man, with a free and loving spirit. Passionate about his family, people, politics, and business. Occasionally, his passion would slip over into anger... liiiiike that time when I broke the fourth TV remote in a row, or that other time when I poured water directly into the back of the television. Oops. In 1983, Dad's passion led him to open his own used car business and he operated it for 25 years. The connotation, when you hear the term "used car salesman", is not typically a good one. I always used to tell people that Dad was a used car salesman, but not the stereotypical kind. He was a used car salesman with a big heart. He loved cars and selling cars, but more than anything, he loved to help people. He always gave people breaks, and had the softest spot for those who were struggling in some way. He often sat with potential or current customers, listening to their stories of financial hardship, job problems, illness, and family strife. He had a heart for those who were hurting. And so, he sold discounted cars to people who needed them, and he very rarely repossessed a car. Our basement, growing up as kids, was a testament to this. It was treasure mine of random items that Dad had collected as "collateral." If someone couldn't make a payment, Dad would keep the collateral in exchange. So we ended up with trombones, other old rusty instruments, jewelry, record players, stereos, old video games, etc. It was always so fun to see, "hey! what's in the basement this week??" In essence, Dad collected other people's stuff, so that they could keep their car when the cash came up short. That's just the kind of man he was. He always cared, always trusted, always wanted people to get ahead, always tried hard to give people the benefit of the doubt.
It was a simple, modest living, but Dad's work was rich. I have learned so much about real, unconditional, nonjudgmental love, by watching him.
Dad made friends easily, and he always made our friends feel like family. He greeted people with a warm smile and a great hug. All were welcome, anytime, any place. Growing up, and even now, our friends didn't call him Mr. Quinones. They called him Papa Q.
Dad had a special way with words. He had sayings that were very specific to him. He said funny things like, "I need to put on my sweat-out suit" instead of "sweat suit" or "It doesn't mean zelch", combining "zero" and "zilch". "You eat with your eyes," was something he said, instead of "your eyes are bigger than your stomach." "To beat the band" was also one of his go-to phrases. He used that one in every situation possible. I'm not even really sure what it means. I think it means a lot of something, or very much? He'd say things like "This Chinese food is terrific, to beat the band!" or "There was traffic, to beat the band." He tended to make up words and phrases, and we loved this about him. It always made us laugh. He was quite the philosopher, too, and gave us many words of wisdom to live by. He always encouraged us to live life to the fullest, and to follow our hearts. One memorable quote from Dad was "Good friends are like cushions of comfort." I had no idea how true that would be. Even after his surgeries when his speech and functioning were compromised, in his better moments, he still had words of wisdom for us. Some of my favorite post-surgery gems were, "Life is life," "You can't worry your life away," "Change your job, change your act, change your heart," "Time is precious," and "Spirit is a universal language."
Dad was a hard worker. He worked hard, long hours to support his family, and to provide for our needs. In the last few years of his life, he expressed remorse that he worked so much and wasn't physically there more often for Mom and for us... that he didn't help out more with raising us, or spend more time with us growing up. It hurt so much to see how this pained him... but more than that, it was amazing to see yet another layer of his character revealed. One that could see and recognize his human imperfections, and be vulnerable in that difficult space, and to say "I'm sorry." I will never forget those beautiful moments. I told him, "It's okay, Dad. You took care of us. You always did the best you knew how to do for us. And we always knew how much you loved us."
It's difficult to find the words to describe how much we will miss him. But his great passion for life, his great love for family, his heart for the less fortunate, and the beauty of light that he spread to all who knew him, will always live in us. He'll be the sparkle in our eyes, when we see each other. The strength in our arms, when we reach out to hug a friend or to lift someone up from the ground. He'll be the tenor in our voice when we sing and laugh, and the pep in our step when we dance.
We love you, Dad... to beat the band. And we take comfort in the knowledge that you are finally home.
_________________________________________________________________________
Using his words, Dad would be "so tickled" to see all of you here, in celebration of his life today.
As you all know, Dad was a sweet and gentle soul. He was kind and extremely affectionate. He loved music, dancing, singing and watching live performances. He was a passionate man, with a free and loving spirit. Passionate about his family, people, politics, and business. Occasionally, his passion would slip over into anger... liiiiike that time when I broke the fourth TV remote in a row, or that other time when I poured water directly into the back of the television. Oops. In 1983, Dad's passion led him to open his own used car business and he operated it for 25 years. The connotation, when you hear the term "used car salesman", is not typically a good one. I always used to tell people that Dad was a used car salesman, but not the stereotypical kind. He was a used car salesman with a big heart. He loved cars and selling cars, but more than anything, he loved to help people. He always gave people breaks, and had the softest spot for those who were struggling in some way. He often sat with potential or current customers, listening to their stories of financial hardship, job problems, illness, and family strife. He had a heart for those who were hurting. And so, he sold discounted cars to people who needed them, and he very rarely repossessed a car. Our basement, growing up as kids, was a testament to this. It was treasure mine of random items that Dad had collected as "collateral." If someone couldn't make a payment, Dad would keep the collateral in exchange. So we ended up with trombones, other old rusty instruments, jewelry, record players, stereos, old video games, etc. It was always so fun to see, "hey! what's in the basement this week??" In essence, Dad collected other people's stuff, so that they could keep their car when the cash came up short. That's just the kind of man he was. He always cared, always trusted, always wanted people to get ahead, always tried hard to give people the benefit of the doubt.
It was a simple, modest living, but Dad's work was rich. I have learned so much about real, unconditional, nonjudgmental love, by watching him.
Dad made friends easily, and he always made our friends feel like family. He greeted people with a warm smile and a great hug. All were welcome, anytime, any place. Growing up, and even now, our friends didn't call him Mr. Quinones. They called him Papa Q.
Dad had a special way with words. He had sayings that were very specific to him. He said funny things like, "I need to put on my sweat-out suit" instead of "sweat suit" or "It doesn't mean zelch", combining "zero" and "zilch". "You eat with your eyes," was something he said, instead of "your eyes are bigger than your stomach." "To beat the band" was also one of his go-to phrases. He used that one in every situation possible. I'm not even really sure what it means. I think it means a lot of something, or very much? He'd say things like "This Chinese food is terrific, to beat the band!" or "There was traffic, to beat the band." He tended to make up words and phrases, and we loved this about him. It always made us laugh. He was quite the philosopher, too, and gave us many words of wisdom to live by. He always encouraged us to live life to the fullest, and to follow our hearts. One memorable quote from Dad was "Good friends are like cushions of comfort." I had no idea how true that would be. Even after his surgeries when his speech and functioning were compromised, in his better moments, he still had words of wisdom for us. Some of my favorite post-surgery gems were, "Life is life," "You can't worry your life away," "Change your job, change your act, change your heart," "Time is precious," and "Spirit is a universal language."
Dad was a hard worker. He worked hard, long hours to support his family, and to provide for our needs. In the last few years of his life, he expressed remorse that he worked so much and wasn't physically there more often for Mom and for us... that he didn't help out more with raising us, or spend more time with us growing up. It hurt so much to see how this pained him... but more than that, it was amazing to see yet another layer of his character revealed. One that could see and recognize his human imperfections, and be vulnerable in that difficult space, and to say "I'm sorry." I will never forget those beautiful moments. I told him, "It's okay, Dad. You took care of us. You always did the best you knew how to do for us. And we always knew how much you loved us."
It's difficult to find the words to describe how much we will miss him. But his great passion for life, his great love for family, his heart for the less fortunate, and the beauty of light that he spread to all who knew him, will always live in us. He'll be the sparkle in our eyes, when we see each other. The strength in our arms, when we reach out to hug a friend or to lift someone up from the ground. He'll be the tenor in our voice when we sing and laugh, and the pep in our step when we dance.
We love you, Dad... to beat the band. And we take comfort in the knowledge that you are finally home.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
A thousand tiny little pieces
Taking pictures with Dad, Hazel wanted to take one "by herself" with Papa. So, I took a few.
This was yesterday.
"I love you, Papa," she said as we stood by his bed to say goodbye. "I love you too, baby," he managed to whisper, almost soundless, under his breath. "He said I love you too baby!" she exclaimed, with great joy. It was a pretty large feat for him, who has spoken so few words the last several months. I could see the adoration in his weary eyes. My heart swelled, and then broke into a thousand tiny little pieces.
I am simultaneously angry and grateful. Angry, that they can't share more time together in this life. Angry that someone so small, should have to suffer such great loss. I love hearing the ring to his name when she speaks it from her sweet lips. Their laughter. How she would light up when she learned he was coming for a visit.
But I'm also so grateful. So grateful that they got to know each other at all. Grateful for the great gift of their relationship.
I hope she will remember him always. I hope she can recall the love he holds for her in his huge heart. I hope she will tell her little sister all about their Papa, and how he cared for them so. I hope she will sense his presence in the stars as they light up the sky, the warm sun as it shines on her face, and in the gentle, sweet fragrance of the wind.
This was yesterday.
"I love you, Papa," she said as we stood by his bed to say goodbye. "I love you too, baby," he managed to whisper, almost soundless, under his breath. "He said I love you too baby!" she exclaimed, with great joy. It was a pretty large feat for him, who has spoken so few words the last several months. I could see the adoration in his weary eyes. My heart swelled, and then broke into a thousand tiny little pieces.
I am simultaneously angry and grateful. Angry, that they can't share more time together in this life. Angry that someone so small, should have to suffer such great loss. I love hearing the ring to his name when she speaks it from her sweet lips. Their laughter. How she would light up when she learned he was coming for a visit.
But I'm also so grateful. So grateful that they got to know each other at all. Grateful for the great gift of their relationship.
I hope she will remember him always. I hope she can recall the love he holds for her in his huge heart. I hope she will tell her little sister all about their Papa, and how he cared for them so. I hope she will sense his presence in the stars as they light up the sky, the warm sun as it shines on her face, and in the gentle, sweet fragrance of the wind.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Five-Minute Friday: Nothing
This is my first time participating in Five Minute Fridays with Lisa-Jo Baker. The task is to write for 5 minutes on a topic that she chooses, and post the unedited material. Well... I wrote for 10 minutes. I'll get better. :) This week's topic is to write about the word NOTHING.
Nothing is the place where I sometimes live to get through my day. It is a numbness that lives in the world of do, do, do. Nothingness is what I feel, when I fix the breakfast, change the diapers, get everyone dressed, fold the clothes. I feel nothing when I turn on the tv, brew the coffee, or clean up the dishes. Nothing is a place to survive, from all the intense feelings that sometimes simmer just beneath the surface. All of the vulnerability, the exposure, that comes with the world of parenthood... having tiny pieces of your heart walking/crawling around, falling down, getting bruised, pushing all of your buttons - pushing you to the limits of yourself.
Nothing is the place where I sometimes live to get through my day. It is a numbness that lives in the world of do, do, do. Nothingness is what I feel, when I fix the breakfast, change the diapers, get everyone dressed, fold the clothes. I feel nothing when I turn on the tv, brew the coffee, or clean up the dishes. Nothing is a place to survive, from all the intense feelings that sometimes simmer just beneath the surface. All of the vulnerability, the exposure, that comes with the world of parenthood... having tiny pieces of your heart walking/crawling around, falling down, getting bruised, pushing all of your buttons - pushing you to the limits of yourself.
Nothing is what I feel when I spend time on facebook or reading articles. Nothing is what I feel when I leaf through magazines, or watch the Food Network. Nothing is what I feel when I drink that glass of wine or fill my schedule to the brim.
It's when I see you - when I REALLY see or hear or feel you - that nothing becomes something.
I am rescued from the nothing when I exhale and take you all in. The messy hair, the dirty fingernails. The excessive toddler demands. The beautiful curl of your lips. I feel, so much. When I take a moment to revel in your sweet, fleeting babyhood, as I hold you in my arms. As I hug you tightly... and breathe in the sweet scent of baby shampoo in your soft hair. The sound of your laugh is something... it's everything. When we sit all together as a family and play music, singing, dancing, expressing.... I feel something. I feel so happy. I feel so blessed. So grateful.
Nothing is where I survive... but when I allow myself the time and space of something - of everything - is when I'm truly alive.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Letting go - Part 5: Coming Home
It was a moment I'll never forget. Canon in D had stopped playing, and we stood nervously, ritualistically at the altar after our procession. Our parents stood proudly behind us, as our friend Jason (an ordained minister) asked who would be giving us away this day. After our parents' words, "We do," rang happily through the sanctuary, the crowd of loved ones behind us unexpectedly erupted in laughter. "What in the WORLD just happened??" raced through my mind. As we turned to uncover the mystery, we found that our fathers had high-fived each other before returning to their seats. It was perfect. It was a perfect, joy-filled moment, that smashed our anxieties into smithereens and enabled us to continue our wedding ceremony with a lightness in our hearts.
A few hours later, "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole pumped through the sound system as we swayed back and forth. I clung to him, as if I was still a child, tears streaming down my face. He hummed sweetly in my ear. No words were spoken... such warm comfort I felt in his arms as we danced. I was fully aware of how public, how vulnerable the whole thing was. I just couldn't help my tears. I wanted to honor this moment by allowing my feelings to spill out from inside me. It was too important to hold in. Something so symbolic... so deep-seated, is this ritual of the father-daughter dance. I grieved for him. The man in my life. I grieved for my family, as I was "leaving them to become one flesh with my husband." We held tightly to each other, as we were letting go. Letting go/grieving and celebrating at the same time, the love that I had found.... the love that would grow our family, and bring us all such happiness.
I had my last conversation with my father, as he was fully-functioning, on October 9th, 2013. The day before his brain surgery (surgeries). He cried, as he told me that his heart was at peace. That he felt that God had spoken to him, telling him not to be afraid. Not to worry - that God would bring him home. It was another gift to my anxious heart, his peace that night. I knew I had to let him go... into the hands of the surgeon and the medical teams and into the uncertainty of the future.
I play these cherished moments over and over again in my mind this week. This week, one of the hardest of my life. This week, where my mother and my sisters and I are searching our souls, kneeling before God, holding each other up, and making the most difficult decisions we've ever had to make.
Things have not turned out the way we hoped. A journey of excruciating ups and downs, filled with fear, trauma, confusion, anger, sadness, hope, weariness, helplessness, guilt, and more. Complex and twisty and uncertain and inconsistent. The ground has shifted and rocked and quaked beneath our feet, and we have had to figure out how to stay standing. It's more than we ever thought we'd have to handle. My warrior mother, most of all.
After Dad had 3 brain surgeries and an emergency spinal surgery all in a week; after multiple unforeseen complications and sustaining permanent damage to his brain and spine, which has left him partially paralyzed from the waist down, unable to speak much, and at times largely unresponsive; after his body has been so weakened from spending 6.5 months in a medical bed; after suffering from a series of mini-strokes; after infection after inevitable infection and multiple rounds of anti-biotics; after becoming resistant to several anti-biotics; after his kidneys have begun to fail; after a very difficult meeting with his team of doctors at UVA, who feel that Dad is in his final weeks...
It is time to let him go, once again.
He has been a valiant fighter, and he has won some small victories along the way. But he's been through enough. As we honor his wishes, and honor him, the best way we know how... we are letting go of aggressive medicine and our hopes for his physical healing. Hospice care will ease his suffering and give him the best quality of life for the rest of his days.
He hasn't been home in 6.5 months. He hasn't seen those walls... those walls, that wood, those bricks... so familiar. He hasn't smelled those smells, sat in his favorite chair, or seen the fruits of his labors - in which he holds great pride. He hasn't seen the fabric of his love manifested, or been reminded of all the cherished memories in this place. Where there is more laughter than beeping machines, and more color than the white of walls and jackets. This safe place. His home.
It's time to bring him home.
It's time to let him go, and bring him home. To bring him home, to reconnect with all that is a part of him and his beautiful life. Before God brings him forever home.
We feel relief that his struggle will end. We are at peace, although we grieve deeply. We have grieved for some time. We will continue to grieve.
And I know in my heart, that although his body and his brain will not heal here on earth, that he will be whole again.
And we will dance.
A few hours later, "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole pumped through the sound system as we swayed back and forth. I clung to him, as if I was still a child, tears streaming down my face. He hummed sweetly in my ear. No words were spoken... such warm comfort I felt in his arms as we danced. I was fully aware of how public, how vulnerable the whole thing was. I just couldn't help my tears. I wanted to honor this moment by allowing my feelings to spill out from inside me. It was too important to hold in. Something so symbolic... so deep-seated, is this ritual of the father-daughter dance. I grieved for him. The man in my life. I grieved for my family, as I was "leaving them to become one flesh with my husband." We held tightly to each other, as we were letting go. Letting go/grieving and celebrating at the same time, the love that I had found.... the love that would grow our family, and bring us all such happiness.
I had my last conversation with my father, as he was fully-functioning, on October 9th, 2013. The day before his brain surgery (surgeries). He cried, as he told me that his heart was at peace. That he felt that God had spoken to him, telling him not to be afraid. Not to worry - that God would bring him home. It was another gift to my anxious heart, his peace that night. I knew I had to let him go... into the hands of the surgeon and the medical teams and into the uncertainty of the future.
I play these cherished moments over and over again in my mind this week. This week, one of the hardest of my life. This week, where my mother and my sisters and I are searching our souls, kneeling before God, holding each other up, and making the most difficult decisions we've ever had to make.
Things have not turned out the way we hoped. A journey of excruciating ups and downs, filled with fear, trauma, confusion, anger, sadness, hope, weariness, helplessness, guilt, and more. Complex and twisty and uncertain and inconsistent. The ground has shifted and rocked and quaked beneath our feet, and we have had to figure out how to stay standing. It's more than we ever thought we'd have to handle. My warrior mother, most of all.
After Dad had 3 brain surgeries and an emergency spinal surgery all in a week; after multiple unforeseen complications and sustaining permanent damage to his brain and spine, which has left him partially paralyzed from the waist down, unable to speak much, and at times largely unresponsive; after his body has been so weakened from spending 6.5 months in a medical bed; after suffering from a series of mini-strokes; after infection after inevitable infection and multiple rounds of anti-biotics; after becoming resistant to several anti-biotics; after his kidneys have begun to fail; after a very difficult meeting with his team of doctors at UVA, who feel that Dad is in his final weeks...
It is time to let him go, once again.
He has been a valiant fighter, and he has won some small victories along the way. But he's been through enough. As we honor his wishes, and honor him, the best way we know how... we are letting go of aggressive medicine and our hopes for his physical healing. Hospice care will ease his suffering and give him the best quality of life for the rest of his days.
He hasn't been home in 6.5 months. He hasn't seen those walls... those walls, that wood, those bricks... so familiar. He hasn't smelled those smells, sat in his favorite chair, or seen the fruits of his labors - in which he holds great pride. He hasn't seen the fabric of his love manifested, or been reminded of all the cherished memories in this place. Where there is more laughter than beeping machines, and more color than the white of walls and jackets. This safe place. His home.
It's time to bring him home.
It's time to let him go, and bring him home. To bring him home, to reconnect with all that is a part of him and his beautiful life. Before God brings him forever home.
We feel relief that his struggle will end. We are at peace, although we grieve deeply. We have grieved for some time. We will continue to grieve.
And I know in my heart, that although his body and his brain will not heal here on earth, that he will be whole again.
And we will dance.
"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break." ~William Shakespeare
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