One two, one two, with a pause between.
Victory drums beating out in glory
because today, I am alive.
Maybe someday, the drums will skip a beat.
Certainly someday, the drums will stop.
But for now my heart is dancing happily
to the pulse that gives me life,
making music with every single breath.

He bends over the paper, his pencil scribbling,
trying to keep up with his neurons firing.
Three plus eight is eleven, carry the one,
He shows me when he’s done,
and for a moment looks at me
questioning, did he succeed?
Carefully, I check his work, I smile, I nod.
The light in his eyes lights up the world.

I’m living insufficiently,
yet I’m loved by One who
knows what I don’t know,
and sees what I don’t see—
my life in context of forever,
today in view of infinity.

I wish it was like going to sleep,
letting go, sinking deep,
reason shutting down gradually
while love tiptoes through the door gently,
but no, love knocks me out like a long day’s work,
hard and fast--it hurts
like a sucker punch to the gut
before I get my guard up.

Impossible, putting it to words, distilling this to nouns, verbs,
but I write because I’m scared of the way I feel when you look at me,
when I’m the focus of your eyes, so deep--I want to leap and dive
but I’ve forgotten what it’s like to swim so I panic,
backing away from the water’s edge, head spinning because
I don’t know you, still my heart smiles wickedly as you walk my way.

I looked today at pictures of us:
talking, in a group of friends laughing,
in a crowd standing, our heads bobbing
to the music of the moment.
So many moments, you and I,
yet not once, not one time
did you stand by my side,
did you put your arm around me,
did you look at the camera and smile wide
to capture a moment only meant for two.
Years later, this tells me everything I should have known.

I like to begin this story with her shoes: Sequins, orange plastic straps,
cork sole, pointed wedge toes, and 2 inch high heels.
Impossible for mountain climbing.
And yet, I was the one who fell.

I thought I was saving lives that day.
I meant well, and as I see myself,
climbing down the mountain,
I know I believed I was a hero.
And, honestly, wouldn’t you?
If you climbed up a mountain to give medicine to
someone laying sick in a house made of dirt,
if children smiled as you gave them toothbrushes
to protect the teeth missing already from their parents’ mouths,
if an old woman held your hand and thanked God for you,
Me agradezca a Dios por su ayuda.

She walked with me, my guide.
Meant to walk before me and lead me safe,
but heroes are better than high heels
so I walked beside her, faster.
The path inclined downward, sharply, and curved.
At the edge of the curve, a drop, 30 feet or more,
My left boot slipped, rocks and dust giving way
I shot sideways toward the drop, flailing,
Humanity crashed back into me.

I like to end this story with her hands:
Simple human hands, four fingers, a palm, a thumb
Strong, worn, smooth like a rock worn by the sand.
These hands caught me falling to my death
on the side of a mountain and held me steady.
These hands taught me that it’s not heroes who save lives
because all she had to do to save me was hold my hand.