"I'm sorry, Mum," he said to me
when he was only twenty-three.
A four story climb was all he'd need
to find that he could bleed.
"It's broken, his neck that is
and some other bones we think."
I fell on my knees, my body buckled.
My thoughts began to sink.
I managed to say, "I'm on my way."
As I stumbled to the car.
It was all I could do to concentrate
to drive to him that far.
"I'll wave my wand; it'll disappear,"
I thought in utter despair.
"How will he look? Will he be okay?"
So many questions that day.
His beautiful face broken and bruised
was smiling as I arrived. Alive!
Smiling as much as he could.
"Of course!" I thought, "He would try
to be as happy as he could for me."
A beautiful child, a loving man born
to live again. Healing his shattered
body using only his peaceful mind.
© Deirdre Moignard Miller.
Published in "Who's Who in Poetry" 2004
