The day my son Max flew
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“Ray’s been let go.” 
“What?” 
“I spoke to the Chief Psychiatrist on the other unit, and he fired the tech last night.”
“Wow,” I said, overwhelmed as I bent over with hands on my knees. I wept for a few minutes.
“Let it out, David,” Dr. Ren said as she patted my back. “Get it all out now, that’s it, that’s it. Release everything you can.”
 
And so, my life moved in a better, more positive direction. Two steps up, one step back, but the bottom line was things were good now. I was discharged a few months later and found myself in a local Wendy’s with my son, Maxwell at his sixth birthday party where he proudly donned a regal Burger King crown. “How do I look in it, Poppa?” he asked, his face so damn precise and perfect in the late afternoon light.
“Superb,” I said, and Max truly did. Life was freer and I’d never felt so alive. Dazzled by my growing son and his tangible joy he brought to his day-to-day activities; bike riding or running or swimming or tumbling or laughing. It was like he was so jazzed I wouldn’t have been surprised if he rose up and flew away. “Way to go, Max,” I’d call out as he twirled in the clouds before coasting to a stop in our yard just in time for supper. “You had a good day, Max?” I’d ask. 
“The best,” he said. “Only the best.”