as a sculptor, so do i

the morning report comes bitter and sweet. isaiah is now developing a pleural effusion on the other lung; we can downsize him to a smaller trach, closer to no trach. Dr. Zehava Noah, the woman who created the ICU at Children's, is also bittersweet; happy that he appears mentally unchanged, sad that he inexplicably continues to fill with fluid.
tonight, i sit in the kitchen of Ronald McDonald House. a mother enters, excited that her son, a heart transplant patient who entered in step with isaiah, will be leaving the hospital tomorrow. going down the stairs, I run into another lodger and his girlfriend, she just discharged, having had a Fontan re-do the same day Isaiah had spinal surgery. both the mother and the boyfriend I count friends, fellow travelers.
i return to the room, pour a glass of wine, play songs of melancholy and turn off the lights. i know if i do not sit with this sadness, feel out it's boundaries, that i may run reckless, forgetting my many joys in a race to escape the pain i fear is endless. i turn on the lights, write these words and fold the laundry. step by step, i pace the boundaries of this most amazing and complicated life.