After I lay static two days, they came to resurrect me. I needed sunlight, they said. The edge of the bed was a magical feat. Lifted to a stand, gravity reminded me I had indeed died a small death. Dowsed in sweat, I pushed one dead foot in front of another. My weight so heavy, the room became light. They insisted I sit a while. No, I groaned, let’s make it to the window.
the nurse measures
my heart rate
We are all petrified when great Granddaddy’s 99th birthday party takes a turn and he passes out. He is out cold, life alert is sirening. The operator on the speaker line is walking us though the wait. My 5-year-old, an old soul, says aloud and calmly, “today might be the day.” Great Granddaddy comes to, lets out a raspy holler. The young paramedics question him. Birth year? 1916. President? Obama. They celebrate, pumping fists in the air, but take him to the hospital for overnight observation. A week later he sends us a text, a selfie holding up the handmade cards the great grandsons gave him inscribed with stick figures and smiley faces.
the perched egret
looks both ways