aw crap

microbie just called from the hospital.
she's okay.
she was hit by a truck while crossing the street this morning.
she was x-rayed and has no broken bones, just cuts and bruises.
she's at home now, hopefully resting and taking good drugs.

rambling

bad news, unexpected, menacing, like a yellow-fanged thief in broad daylight who gets a twisted thrill at your gasp when he pokes at suddenly with a knife or a fist or the barrel of a gun, running away, laughing to himself, as you lie devastated, robbed of something more important than what was in your pockets - your equilibrium, your steady pace, your often-taken-for-granted sense that, all in all, everything is ok.

and what you're left with - if only for a moment - is your head in your hands, tears in your eyes, that lump in your throat that you can't swallow, and a shocking, certain realization that what's holding you here is just a tender thread, what keeps you from losing your mind is in a bottle, a hug, words; precious, dangerous, unreliable gifts.

and then it glimmers, like a lost earring on a dirty carpet: hope.

place it in a box. you'll need it soon.