His head aches, so I knead my fingertips on his scalp. He leans forward again, groaning, retching. I stroke his back, sweaty-from-pain beneath the blue hospital gown, "it's okay...it's okay...."
Gingerly leaning back against stacked pillows, he blinks up at me with luminous olive-green, blurred-sight eyes, "thank you, Mommy..."
I weep anew. That this suffering boy-man of my heart would see my fear-filled face and worry-shaking hands of care, with gratitude. That he instinctively pours forth gratitude, despite the suture-stitched space above his heart, and the brain-swelled agony of challenging his ventricles.
There are moments of clarity; breaths of free air, that I gulp in greedily, and see with new eyes the limitless blue sky of trust and faith and grace.
I pray and beg.
I breath slow, intent against fear’s possession. Knowing not the outcome, there is gushing relief from God’s Presence, and Hope crowds out the hungry space of prison-fear.
For now, he rests fitfully before me, and there are two more sutured wounds, to make seven this week, and he is well; for now.
And fear is but a degree-of-fever away.
And Hope is here with us.