My sleeping bag, ukelele, camera, and the baby's diaper bag are by the door ready for tomorrow morning. We'll rise with the sun and while Max hums his morning tune, I'll brush my teeth and remember to bring my pillow. Seven hours later, after long thoughtful Nevada spaces, we'll arrive at St. Mary's, the place where I was born, to see you.
You're not sure if it's worth it anymore; you may have even made up your mind that it is not, but this morning, while they loaded you into the ambulance, cussing and fighting, GranD told you that it wasn't your time yet, Sammy's on his way. We'll be there this time tomorrow. Max will make you smile and maybe breathe a little easier.
I've heard the whispers from your sister, brothers, your daughter, reassuring me that they are there for you with strength and freedom. Thank you for preserving your point of view through numerous angles and lenses. You are loved in an infinite sense.