I'm standing here at the museum
In uptown center street.
I cam because I had to see,
I had to see what Mack painted.
Last I saw him, he was walking
out of the Hospital. Healing. His face was
mangled, a long rough bubble of skin
hardened across his left jaw and ear,
where smooth pink skin once was.
His hands recovered, thankfully.
He leads me to this spot,
Where he pats my shoulder and leaves me a while
Leaves me to think,
But I can't think,
I can only remember.
I remember that fire, in '04
Its flames licking, eating up the dark
Swallowing the linen bed-sheets,
and devouring an oakwood cradle.
My gear rests heavily on my shoulders
A resistance to my speed
But protection from the heat.
I smell the cloud of thick smoke
racing to my lungs,
and the blinding confusion
of the ceiling above
crashing down around me,
landing in charcoal heaps at my feet.
I remember finding Mack passed out;
A man with rolling eyes and flimsy limbs,
Incapacitated on the smoldering floor.
I lift him over my shoulder, and rescue him,
diving--searching--crashing my way
out of the biting cold night air.
He groans through ember lips, "My baby.
My baby, Jean.
Save my baby."
I go back in,
I try to find the oaken cradle.
There she is, somehow protected
Her blankets just beginning to singe
I carry her, crying, away.
I never heard such a lovely cry.
She was alive, every sound she made,
It meant she was alive.
And here she comes, interrupting my reverie,
grabbing my leg.
"I'm here, Jean," I say, and lift her up.
She hugs me, and laughs.
I never heard such a lovely laugh.
"Thanks, Joe." Mack says, patting my shoulder again.
I stare into the fire once more,
the thing that destroyed Mack's home and nearly
so nearly took his life.
But from that burn
Grew friendship and renewal.
There is hope again.
--Genevive Louise Noette
