3:00 a.m. –
instantly awake.
Sliver of welcome-home light
still shines under my door
a silent revelation:
he is not yet home.
All sleep securely bound and trussed
by the everlasting umbilical cord,
I go downstairs with my sedatives –
pillow, journal, pen –
assume my post on the couch
and wait.
Every cell tingles
with questions, apprehension,
self-talk, prayer:
What on earth does an 18-year-old
do with his girlfriend at this forsaken hour?
There are people and cars around here
drowned in roadside sloughs
and not found for days.
(Girl, cut the melodrama.)
Dear God, please help him be okay.
Take up my pen
vent rage, fear
and live again a time
when the biggest risk he took
was a leap
from the fourth step
into my arms.
Violet Nesdoly 