Toward

Mom and I and the pastor and youth group  
piled with ski cargo in the church van.  
We were eating marshmallows, humming 
along to songs, though it’s possible mom  
and I had one of our throw-downs at the lodge  
that morning. It was a long drive home 
from the slopes, and the Colorado road  
was edged with ice and wisps of snow.  
It was slow going whenever Pastor drove. 
To pass the boredom we highschoolers  
huddled near the back row, playing a game 
of would you or wouldn’t you rather, 
using the gathered data to impose 
on each other’s judgements and morals. 
Would you or wouldn’t you run toward 
an explosion to save a stranger? A child?  
Someone you know? So easy to claim you’d  
do the ethical thing in the scenario. Then,  
out the back window we gasped as a trailer 
slid out of control, rolled off the shoulder 
and slammed on its side. Smoke billowed. 
Mom was sprinting before I knew  
we'd stopped. Like a rogue Black Widow 
she leaped on the truck, hoisted herself  
to the door facing up. A pair of hands  
raised a bundle through the hole— 
a little baby. For a second I saw the echo— 
her checking the limbs, counting fingers and toes. 

Artwork Courtesy of our featured Artist Hassan Zahreddine