Little Book

a memory from Memorial Day Weekend 2014

Sitting on the second step

quiet and alert

in my hand a tiny book

of precious ancient words.

Flashing lights and siren cries

yet everyone is calm

could all of this have really been

from tingles up an arm?

Every new responder gives

a sympathetic look

I simply shrug and trace the spine

of my broken little book.

Cries echo down the street

but they tell me I'll survive

so we pack our things into the car

like another midnight drive.

Days go by in a blur

of blue curtains and white walls

weeks go by in a whirlwind

of greeting cards and phone calls.

When I sit on the second step

I want to hold that book

never have I read the words inside

but still, I feel the hook.