Two months.

 

 

Two months old. Two months of late nights, early mornings, surgery, slow recovery, three rounds of chemo and blood draws. Almost the end of this ridiculous, "I never want to live it again" year. To my family and friends, I promise to celebrate Christmas like normal next year, probably even a little over the top. To Christmas, just like Halloween, I wholeheartedly apologize for not being able to give you your proper due this year.

It's such a "beautiful to me" day today - overcast, raining off and on, steel gray clouds the color of Jack's eyes when he was a baby. It could be 10 degrees colder, hell, it could be snowing, but I will take what I can get. The tree in my front yard is still a firestorm of colors - the leaves change from the outside in, to orange, gold, red. Who says we don't have any changing colors in Southern California? There is so much to do, so much to see, so much to experience. I feel like running into next year.

It so broke my heart that one of the first little ones to be buried was named Jack. I can only send up  prayers for peace and healing for their familes, hoping Mary doesn't get tired of my relentless communications this year as she has been my chosen conduit, for I know the children are ok. These children, who were cheated out of their life here, will be forever who we aren't, they will be innocent and pure and good.