Weight.

Brake lights in the dark

are all that keep me going

as the wipers clear the rain,

rhythmic like a heartbeat,

and the rows of trees loom

over the street

like reapers.

A thirty-minute drive

seems to last a life time,

to save a life,

or two, or three.

Maybe a whole family.

At least the lights

glow in the night,

fluorescent reflections,

hope in embers,

better than the sterile room,

the people pacing

in a quiet building and

the smell of fear.

It’s all okay in the end,

(for us following at least),

seats all filled,

driving home

after a few days on the mend,

glad to leave the hospital,

go back to almost normal,

but no one leaves

the automatic doors

without a burden,

because life and death

can be equally heavy,

and you will never

know someone

enough to be ready.