Grit
Whitney Copeland (6:30 PST, Monday, 1/17/22) I sit in a yellow scratchy isolation gown next to your bed, Krew. Just me and you. I can hear the soft whistling sounds of a breathing tube. The whoosh of the air that is keeping you alive. I watch the rise and fall of your chest. You’re sleeping, resting my dear little one. Out of pain, no real sense of time or place. I pray that the angels round about you lift you up in the sweetest of dreams. That you can have memories of better times. I also pray that the only three years of your life are memorable, they hold value. Remember your mom and dad, remember your siblings. When you do wake you speak often of your trucks, trains and our beloved home, the bus. My hope is that you remember those things and smile. I pray the nightmares stop, and that I’m always here to silence your fears and re-assure you. Take hope that one day our lives will be different from where we are now. The beeping monitors, sterile surroundings and these hellish procedur