Memories of my grandmother murmuring over my tear-stained face, a bit of wisdom I have never forgotten these seven decades later: that the morning is brighter than the night.
Those incantations, said as she tucked me in, let me sigh and let go of the angst that kept me from the comfort of my blankets and the bedraggled square of cloth I clutched as my eyes closed—
to dream of playgrounds, pumpkins, and pony rides.
What a gift she gave me. And still, to this day, I look forward to each sunrise and to the irrefutable fact that each morning is, brighter than the night.
