Over the past 3 years of being a mother, there are some mornings I am haunted with a thought that takes me a few moments to shake.
I take a good, long look at my son's innocent face as we stand in the kitchen getting ready for breakfast. I gather in his bright blue eyes filled with wonder. curiousity. happiness. comfort. I have an eerie feeling about how normal the morning is, after we get our kisses goodbye from Mike and begin our regular day.
Some mornings like this I develop a sinking feeling in my chest as I hear his car drive away. My stomach is flipping pancakes while I imagine the horror of the morning of September eleventh. And the scars that were left behind a lot deeper, more raw for other families.
I imagine a specific story of a mother who got a call from her husband who was on one of those fateful flights. I imagine, like my typical morning, her children were eating breakfast and the phone rang. As details of what was going on unfolded within her ear she looked at her children and perhaps began to tremble. Or maybe she was too shocked to react at all. He told her where to find the paperwork in the desk to arrange for life insurance. I can't imagine recieving a call such as this. I can't begin to imagine what words she pieced together when the reciever left her hands. When she had to turn to her look into her children's faces and deliver such shattering news. To know what was about to happen and to not be able to stop it. Life changed for everyone that day, but for families like that changed isn't enough of a word.
I have a quiet little wish in my heart those mornings as we say goodbye, that Zane's Daddy will be back that night. And every night.
