Pathologist first—
            the kind of appointment
            where you hold your breath

            like it’s a superstition.

All levels: looking great.

Relief hit me so clean
       it felt like sunlight in the chest.

One more surgery,
    a month or so of immunotherapy,
     and I should be right as rain—
      not metaphor rain,
       actual,
        walk-outside,
         forget-to-flinch rain.

Meanwhile Ava—
          already in PT,

          already making the therapist do that double-take.

Hip strength like she’s been secretly training
                         for the comeback tour.

I can see it now:
           rapid,
        complete,
        the kind of recovery that makes you proud

        and a little jealous at how tough your kid is.

And in your house—
    your mom’s eye healing,
    you in caretaker mode,
    the quiet,
    relentless love

    that doesn’t get a ribbon or a day off.

I’m hoping it’s smooth.

I’m hoping you get a nap
    that lasts longer than responsibility.

Last night—
     the smallest miracle:
           we talked late,
        not in paragraphs,
      not in explanations,
     just the soft-return language:

     “I miss you, Tj”

     and my little flex:

     “I didn’t say it first
      so I could miss you more”

Simple.

Small.

Proof the spark didn’t die—
      it just went underground

      where the roots do their best work.

So we’ll keep it light.

No pressure.

No dramatic weather reports.

Mid-January is the next runway:
            your birthday week,
                    my arrival,

            a hug that doesn’t need a speech.

A kiss if the universe behaves.

Coal’s snuggle if he grants the clearance.

Until then,
      we do what we’ve been doing:
          heal what can be healed,
           help who needs helping,
       let time do what time does—

       move fast,
       never fast enough,
       and somehow still forward.

Three bodies on the mend,
      two hearts in quiet rehab,
      and a future date penciled in

      like a promise that’s finally learning how to stay.

Recovery all around.

That’s livable.
That’s real.

That’s us—still here.