On a Sunday afternoon, my dad called. 

This was unusual, since, well, 

We don’t call each other. So

I knew that meant that

Something was very wrong. 

 

I hadn’t even answered yet, 

Heart in my throat, racing,

But I knew it was my mother.

Otherwise, it would be her

Name on the caller ID.

 

“She’s having chest pains,

She can’t breathe. Just 

Come to the hospital.” 

 

I wish I still had no idea 

What a pulmonary embolism was. 

I sat at her bedside all night, the 

Doctors said they hope she’ll

Wake up by morning. I don’t 

Want to think about what I’ll 

Do if she doesn’t. 

 

The beeping of the machines

Has never quite gotten out of 

My head, even five years later,

Even with her completely fine. 

 

To stand on the precipice like

That with the one person who’s been 

There since day one is a different 

Kind of terror. And two years later, 

When my aunt died in that same

ICU room, I couldn’t help but 

Thank God for the first time in 

My life, and believe in miracles.