Eli finally sleeps in his bouncy seat to my right.
His cold makes every breath tight and charged with static.
Each breath takes too much effort.
Each breath is work.

We have all been holding our breaths for Stella.
We have held them for nearly six months.
We have kept our lungs filled with hope.

Pray, don't breathe. There was no room for air, only miracles.
We curled our fingers into fists of fury, raging at disease.

We had no time to breathe deep.
We held our breaths for miracles.

Maybe a Thanksgiving day parade of cures.
Maybe a Christmas gift of healing.
Maybe a birthday present for everyone.

We held our breaths.
And now we are breathless.
Their star was stolen from the sky.
The breath snatched right from our throats.

Time for Eli's next dose.
The medicine relaxes the grip on his lungs.
He can sleep. He can now breathe deep.
Harder for us. Grief does not loosen its grip.
Each breath is work.



Anonymous said…
Well said.
Nonnie said…
So true.
Anonymous said…
Nailed it.

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