Tuesday, January 05, 2016
::Barometers of Change::
It’s almost as though their small bodies are barometers of change. They all get sick at the end. Last night I cradled her feverish body in the crook up my arm. Her whimpers quieted almost immediately, and her breathing slowed as she dipped down into sleep. And that’s when I let myself remember. I have been here twice before, a fever-hot child in my arms the very week they are leaving me. They all get sick at the end, a lowering of defenses as they sense somehow that the world around them is about to tilt and shift. Again.