I'm finding, however, that one month is not sufficient healing time for my own injuries. Those memories of watching Isaac fall, seeing him unresponsive when I called out to him, hearing his confused questions as he regained consciousness, and that long, long ambulance ride to the hospital. Those memories still hold my heart so tightly sometimes that I feel my blood racing fast under my skin as if it all is happening still. The strangest things knock me sideways these days. When Isaac walks down our short driveway to check the mail, a chore he loves, I feel blown over. What if someone is driving by? What if their attention wavers and they swerve even slightly? I cringe and shiver and hold my breath until he walks back toward me with his armful of junkmail, safe and whole still. Sometimes even just watching him run as fast as he does almost knocks me flat with fear. I want to ask him to slow down, be careful, walk gently, for me, please. But I don't. I keep the storms of panic tucked away for Isaac. Don't get me wrong, I know he sees the shadows of my fears. But for the most part those moments are mine alone. Because he has healed, even if I have not. In this thing, he is leading and in my own time, I hope I will follow.