by Rena Meyer She wakes. The sun will not rise for at least two hours, yet she knows that it is going to be one of those days. She stretches and gets out of bed. It is quiet, but her children will be up soon. She stops, leans against the doorway and peeks into their bedroom. It has always been one of her favorite things to do. Her son looks so much like his father, who has been gone almost a year now. He was so sick at the end, so small; the memory still makes her heart ache. Mostly she just misses him. She wipes the tear that is rolling down her cheek and takes one more look at her children. She breathes them in hoping that when it is her time she will remember them. Eventually, she turns away. There is no time for dwelling – there are things to do. For almost 40 years we’ve heard the statistics and listened to the personal triumphs and the inevitable, sorrowful outcome ...
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