Jonah leaned back in to the opthomologist's chair with the ease of a a newborn reclining in to their mother's welcoming embrace. He trusts this Doctor, he told me that his hands are gentle and his voice is soft. I had not recognized that Jonah thought about things like the tone and quality of someone's voice... but he had. Blood shot and oozing, he told me his tears tasted of salt and something else he couldnt quite put his finger on, puffy and defeated was his eye. His spirit was good. He was up for talking about his day and showing Dr Mukei his action figure and nodding to his questions. I knew it had been five days since his retinal surgery but couldnt belive it had only been five days since his retinal surgery. I had come to a secret agreement with myself not to think positively, not to hope for sight. I had signed up for the summer camps for the special kids who in fact are very special but Jonah had not been one of them in my eyes (my eyes) until this year... and then he was. But the post op nurse sat with glee in her eyes (her eyes ) telling me, "wait until tomorrow! Wait until next week! Wait until you see what will happen!" I was all of the sudden filled up with that bubbley and extractable concoction of delight, of flowers that come as predicted and a straight path in to the city, no stops, no traffic, hope. I was so optimistic in fact that I thought that maybe he didnt belong in the special kids camp, maybe I should cancel. But that pesky pragmatic self that I am always so relieved to have garnished along with me all these years, showed up. Of course I should keep him just where he is. As he leaned back in the chair, weird alien masked doctor's peering in to his sightless eye, telling him to look this way and that and me holding my breath and tapping my over caffeinated foot and checking my cell phone for a call because someone could be calling to break the thought process that is going on in my head. Jonah can't see. He can't see your fingers, he can't see the letters and he can't see my face out of that left eye so stop your trying and let me at him. Let me put him back in the baby carriage and walk him around town and go back to an easier time. Be grateful, be grateful. Be thankful for that one eye. Be grateful for John's healthier lung and his chance at a transplant. I cant bring myself to do it today. The realist in me, that ole pragmatist tells me, keep guard, be wary. Dr Sorkin told me this would happen five years ago but I know how to block it all out. I am great at denial. That won't happen to us. So when it happens to his right eye and the lights go out for him I will be left to wonder, "Does he remember the look on my face in the morning when he cuddles with me or the glee I showed him while we rode through A Small World at Disney?" For today we take the elevator down and he doesnt want to push the button. He is content to hold my hand and when we get to the door and it is raining he is not surprised and I am not surprised anymore either.