My friend's little boy died this morning.
I don't know why I woke up early, but I did. Maybe it's the sun... the approaching Spring... but around 5 a.m. I found myself staring at my little family all tangled in sheets as the cracks between the plastic slats of the mini-blinds slowly changed from gray to warm white light, striping across the faces of my husband and Bayba. Usually when I wake up earlier than necessary I get a little annoyed, trying to decide whether to attempt to go back to sleep and feel groggy the rest of the morning or whether to just get up and and get started on the day and then be totally exhausted by noon. This morning I was fine. I cuddled my two-year-old as she softly snored, burying my nose in her soft blond hair. She's still little enough to smell like baby shampoo.
Sometime, between cuddling Bayba and making room for Super G to climb into bed (already dressed for school), in that beautiful transition from drowsy peace to happy interaction, while I was holding my happy, thriving children, my friend watched her seven-year-old son take his last breath.
I have no wise conclusion. No words of wit or solace with which to close this post. Just sadness and loss. Grief.