Mom called tonight. Just to hear
my voice. She’d spent a long day
ushering at a funeral. A thousand
people: every seat in the sanctuary,
chairs in the narthex, the fellowship
hall. People lined up since seven this
morning. A 17-year-old—volleyball star,
newspaper editor—riding home from youth
group. Her organs, eyes, ligaments, & skin were
rushed elsewhere in lifecopters. One mother—her daughter
completed suicide two years before—told the other volunteers
she came to acknowledge how they helped her. I know I never
thanked you. Every time I went to write a card, she said,
I couldn’t. My friend Sebastian was in a wreck last 
week. His heart is bruised. What happens when
a heart is bruised? Caterpillars live 
in the passion flower bush over
my girl’s daycare. When
I kissed her goodbye
this morning, nine
butterflies circled
my head.