I'm sitting in a chair in a hospital room, next to my sleeping wife. It snowed sometime between when we arrived at 1 AM and now, at 9 AM, so there is a light frosting on the rooftops outside the window.
The contractions are here, but still moderate.
Maybe another eight hours. Maybe sixteen.
My parents are back at our house, anxiously awaiting my texts. Samantha and Ethan are surely still asleep.
We were talking last night at our early Christmas dinner about when my family moved to Colorado when I was in sixth grade. My dad started a truck and trailer dealership, and my brother and I worked there during the summers. Two of the employees that I remember passed away long ago. I asked my dad about a third. Dead too.
When we were in the waiting room late last night, I told Jo that life is so fleeting. It keeps moving forward. You have to keep moving forward, too, because there's no backwards and no pause.
It was not a sad thought.
Life is what we make of it, and what it makes of us.
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