At dawn, the early morning dew sends chills of excitement down my spine, woahs of wonder echo across the void of vast grass, a place of pleasantry, a place of rest, a place where all wild things run free. Across the air fly birds, brilliant splashes of color against the pale, pink sky. Spiders cast delicate whisps of silk into the breeze. As the day wears on, I think of tomorrow. I wait and wait as I fall asleep. I smile. Dawn is on its way, waiting for me to come tomorrow.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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