Returning home

I hold him in my hands and rock him to sleep, a spine curved now relaxed.  We are safe here in dreams.  I sway from side to side and sing a low Northern lullaby.  And tears of joy form.

I hold him in my arms, and he fits.  My daughter scoops up his drugs from the young nurse and we return home.

"I can sort it,"  she says.

And she does.  She reaches for a pad of paper and a pencil, and fifteen minutes later she's sorted a Drug Programme, administered five separate medications and is feeding him.  Immense.

I am in the hospital with my daughter, a chattering TV screen sequined and dancing on a Saturday night.  My daughter danced once.  I want her so dearly to dance again.

He fits, once more.  The nurse comes and times him home.  Eyes rolling and shrieks, then he's back with us.

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