The IV lines drape over the machine. Leo’s eyes wander over to it, as they always do and lazily scanned the room for new thoughts. A thought dawns.
“Daddy, how are my spaghettis not attached any more?” I explained that he’s done with them for now. He looked around at his room pensively and then pops his thumb out of his mouth again and fixes me with sincere concern.
“Can I go Home?”
We patiently pass the time. He puts on real clothes. Real shoes. We take a walk down the ward. He’s fifteen feet tall. He says hi to all of the aunties, nurses who have waited on him hand and foot for a week. After the last one gushes how cute he is, he turns to me and says, not quietly, “lets get outta here.”
After the last signature is rendered, a new mercy just recently donated is offered.
The discharge train.
The nurses walk you out of the hospital on the train, rather than wheelchair, triumphant to depart the treatment facility. We go check it out. Leo pushes all of the noise making buttons. The nurse asks if he wants to ride it to our van.
“No, auntie, I wanna walk out of here.”
I’m fifteen feet tall.
At home he meets his brother. I worry that maybe he’s jealous of this new spotlight hungry human.
“Awww,” says Leo, “he’s so little.” He inspects his brother closely. He approves. He finds his toys and gets to some serious construction.
At dinner, I sit at the table with four children. My children. Four. There’s no fear of death. Only the stories of victories… occasional tattle telling of some minor indiscretions from the past week, and a lot of future planning.
From the mouth of babes, I hear people say and then they trail off. It’s usually when they get nailed with a hard truth from a child. But honestly, at my dinner table, from the mouth of babes falls the future, and its glories.
“Can I take a picture of just us?”
“Can i take a picture of Baby Judah?”
“Awww. He’s so little.”