The box we haven’t escaped

Ambulance sirens straight to you again. It’s not the sounds I craved for your young ears to hear so soon.

I had a yearning for you to hear the sounds of swings creaking, slides squealing, and the kids' laughter echoing from the monkey bars.

But Your hand barely bigger than my thumb warms mine on the hospital bed. I was about to let go. I had thought you'd been fast asleep (postictal seizure state) but your fighter's grip tightened around one of my fingers. Your eyes open slowly. I smile then you smile. The machines continue their relentless beeping. A rhythm both familiar and terrifying. These four white walls became like a box we haven't been able to escape from just yet.

I’m sorry my love the children's hospital isn't the second home I dreamt of for us.  But soon this box will leave.

I begin to say, “I'll buy us ice cream afterwards. I’ll take you to the playground down the street.” I lift my head off the bed to see your response but you went back to sleeping.

And I became lost in the hum of machines. The ambulance wail still echoing in my aching heart.