When we hear the sirens’ banshee wails,
Flying up behind us,
The four horsemen of the apocalypse,
We say a silent prayer:
“Thank God it’s not for me.”
Then continue on our way,

Until the traffic begins to slow,
And the crowds appear
With their clown faces agape
As the sharp reds, flashing blues, hard blacks,
Charge haphazardly into the scene.

An acquaintance approaches to report the news,
Our faces blank to white as a sheet,
Tears spring to our eyes,
The floodgates of sorrow open:
No. No. No. It can’t be him.

The boy, strong and quiet, funny and kind,
Who hiked mountains up and down the coast,
Who jested in stealing cigarettes,
Who jammed the bass,
All with a twinkle in his eye:
Almost gone
Out a seventh floor dormitory window.

Each of us silent,
Our minds race:
Prayers saved for when God is really needed,
Memories of happy moments,
Nightmares of what ifs.

But then silence,
As the stretcher emerges,
And there he lies
Covered only in a sheet
As white as our faces
We all feel it:
A void, then sudden surge
Love, Despair, Faith,
Past, Present, Future,

And we are with him.