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Show enthusiastic she always was, how energetic. They talked about how much happier they were when she was in the room. They said that God had special ways and special plans and that it was hard to know just how he was going to bless us, but that this little girl was nothing short of a miracle. We had heard some of these things before, but mostly we had heard other things. We heard the parents of other handicapped children, at Amy's school, or at the playground, talk about how difficult it was to do the most basic things anymore. It was hard they said, and mom or dad nodded and said they knew, they knew. We had often heard mom say how impossible it was to keep Amy healthy, that she was always catching one thing or another. At the funeral, dad was the last to stand and speak. He thanked everyone and said how these last months had been the most difficult he had ever known, but that he was grateful for the support our family had received. He said that at the end - when Amy was the most sick - he had stayed awake and held her every night. He held her in his lap, he said, as she coughed and struggled to sleep. But a night or two before she died, he knew it was almost over. He said he knew he had to let her go because it was time and she simply couldn't hold on any longer. But he hadn't been ready, he said, and he hadn't been willing. That was the year mom cried and cried. At first she would hide herself away in her bedroom, doing her best to make excuses, saying she had something in her eye or that her allergies were unbearable. But it wasn't long before we found her at the kitchen sink, peeling vegetables for dinner, her eyes red and her cheeks smeared with moisture she had wiped at but not wiped away. When we asked what was wrong, worried that maybe we were responsible for all the crying even though we hadn't been fighting, mom bent down |
