Strange what you remember in the turning of tragic: the detail of flip-flops
On feet running from the car, past the arrival of the paramedics walking
In long strides clasping medical bags to the scene of the horseback accident:
A pasture alive with early Ohio Spring at the turn of evening in lengthening daylight
And your daughter lying in it, in green grass and blood,
How it must have been warm that April day to be wearing flip-flops
When you rode the long siren sound down Broadway of your hometown
The street of parades, driven in cars, in carriages, on floats, waving
Always waving and smiling, while the fire engines and ambulances sounded
Their sirens and horns in joyous celebration. And now
The ambulance sounds the siren of tragic and you ride unwaving and unsmiling
In the front seat of uncertainty, turning the tragic parade with your prayers:
Praising the existence of paramedics and ambulance
Praising the place you go for sewing and mending
Praising the giving of morphine, the ease of rolling beds
Praising rubber and steel and plastic
Praising doors that open without effort
Praising hands, the hands of many:
Hands that drive
and write
and type
and carry
and clean
and bandage
and find the small vein
Hands of angels reaching from beyond
And the blessed moment in time of the recording of the Memorare
Inspired through heart and mind and mortal hand of
Someone who wants you to know Blessed Mother's protection and help
For you to know in this moment of perfect failure, in the complete humanity of your fear,
That she
Blessed She
Virgin of virgins
Our Mother wants the better for you.
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