Friday, June 1, 2012

Head-on Collision

I enter the giant building
Aseptic walls, sterile scent
White robes, green scrubs
Beeps and hydraulic hisses

I enter your glass-door encasement
On your back, more still than night
Able only to move your eyes
Staring at the white ceiling

Harrowing sight before me
Your body stretched like a hammock
Metal halo encircles your skull
Held tightly with stainless steel screws

Our eyes meet, tears spill over
Trickle of pain flows down your cheeks
62 years now behind you
Uncertain terror of what lie ahead

Never again in this life will you know

Thrill of the hike
Glory of the golf swing
Wind of the ski slope
Frigid chills in your toes
Warm touch to your thigh

To hold a hand
To stroke a cat
To tie a shoe
To lift a child
To button a button
To zip a zipper

Flip the steak
Carve the roast
Pinch Mom on her bottom
Dance a Glen Miller swing
Click the camera

Foreign to the life that awaits you

Only dead weight beneath your shoulders

C-4 sever
One split-second
Cataclysmic aftermath

augst 19, 2007


In early July, 1983, Dad was in a head-on automobile collision. Life forever changed.
To read more context, click here: When Limbs Go Quiet

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