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Friday, February 4, 2011

It's in the stillness, the quiet, the hum of silence that settles on the afternoon, and that's when I slow and remember and miss the little bit that I know of him.

Like the way he likes to be held to fall asleep - his back curled against my chest, his head pillowed on the crook of my arm. My hand securely on his belly. Swaying, rocking, always moving as his lids sleepily cover his eyes, opening slower and fewer until the lashes find rest on his cheek.

And how in the brilliance of Africa's hot sun, he would sleep, curled into me and shiver as goosebumps danced across his arms.

I remember realizing that in his 13 months of life, he had been out in the sun very little. His normal routine is confined to one small, but cheerful, room tucked into his Transition Home.

We've been home a week. We left him behind ten days ago. He's always on my mind, but never as much as when the silence taunts me.

I wonder how many more nights must he lay his head down to sleep in his wooden bed as an orphan?




BARBIE said...

Oh Tiffany, I cannot imagine. Praying for comfort for all of you!

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