Hour of Lead
When I’d tell a teen that we’d keep her
safe—words that I’d hoped would reassure—
it sometimes proved my mistake. “You manage the havoc
that’s my life?” she’d ask. Not in words. One
pulled a stainless-steel fork from her pocket
and right there, three feet away from me, swallowed it.
“Handle this, you aging half-wit, if you think you’re
so good at it.” Eventually, I learned when
not to speak, that time would become less static
with time, and that slowly some belief in a future
might take shape. In the beginning, each crisis felt like lead
which we responders all knew rhymed with dead
which meant no future. Time stuck, almost was still.
To move it required good timing—as much luck as skill.