We are waiting to hear back.ĬLICK HERE for the original WKMG article. News 6 has reached out to get an update on the investigation into the fire. Online records show the warehouse had a permit to store furniture, and there was a request for a pool supply permit. Orange County Commissioner Mayra Uribe says the company did not have a permit to store fireworks in the warehouse. “(She’s) still pretty traumatized by being sedated for so long and waking up to her friends being gone, but she’s really doing amazing.” “We are blown away by her progress,” he told News 6. She finally walked out of the hospital on Friday, he said. Tallafuss’ brother told News 6 that she was moved to the critical care unit for two weeks before being moved to rehabilitation for about a week. STORY: Officials: 3 arrested in connection to kidnapping, assault in North Carolina “I wasn’t a spiritual person before, but now I am,” he said. Tallafuss’s father called her recovery a miracle. Last week on the GoFundMe page, the family said Lindsey was walking and talking. STORY: JSO: All lanes on JTB blocked after crash with injuries She had to be put on dialysis and into a coma to help her heal. A falling star, like the one I saw above the mountains on the night you left us, shoots off into the atmosphere and burns itself off.According to a GoFundMe page set up by her friends, Tallafuss suffered burns on 62% of her body. The snail carries its home on its back and keeps growing that home as it needs to, though I like to imagine it can, like a hermit crab, discard one home for another when the first just won’t do. We’ve passed so many seasons without you, little dear one, and I still haven’t found out. There is a haze around the early summer sun. Hummingbirds weave in and out of the Japanese maple where the feeder hangs. The new neighbourhood is so new and manicured, there is nothing wild, nothing free, except the eagle’s nest at the top of tree across the field where the school will one day be built, but you were far too small and delicate to be found there, at the top of that tree in the calculated swoop and dive of such an animal.Ī golden and green snail clings to the stone gate post where the sweetpeas are trying to grow. Where did you go, little one? In our old neighbourhood, I let myself believe sometimes I could feel you: in the night sky between our tall building at the edge of the park and the mountains beyond in the curl of saltwater along sand strewn with small, shining pebbles and ribbons of green and black seaweed in the waving daffodils of all our neighbours’ spring gardens. I held you in the same position, afraid to move, unable to let you go, even though I knew – could not deny – you were gone. Woods tweeted the news from his official account on Tuesday. Your tiny hands, with their long fingers and delicate wrists, though – those I saw, and memorized, how the nurse folded them just so, your perfect fingernails. Three weeks after an early-morning, single-vehicle crash that sent him to the hospital, Tiger Woods has returned to his home in Florida. I don’t know how much hair – if any – or what colour. You were beautiful, though you were already gone. That dark room that is always blue in my memory, in the quiet after you were delivered, after the nurse declared you beautiful, wrapped you in hospital blankets and manoeuvred a cap onto your little head before placing you in my arms. You weren’t in that room at the hospital, either. Each week I pick up the pot and dust its burnished gold and green surface, the black bird carved in stone on its handle, and know it’s not you in there, though I’ll dust every week until I, too, am gone wherever it is I’ll go. When we arrived there, our family of only three, all shell shocked and me still leaking milk, she wanted so badly to take us right to the shop to see the pots but I resisted until it was almost time to go home again, and have no memory of picking it out, only a sense of my mother, pulling me by the hand through the narrow and twisting cobblestoned streets to a shop I would never find again on my own, her energy homing in on its hidden door and quiet green courtyard, all to find you a home, of sorts: an urn suitable for a tiny baby girl, for Baby Sister who was ours. Your ashes, just a small bag of them, shut with a round, metal tag stamped with an ID number, sit on my dresser in the little pot with the bird on its lid, the one your grandmother picked out in Puerto Vallarta.
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