Memory

There is a memorial plaque in town. I pass it regularly. I remember.

I remember a sunny Saturday morning drilling at the firehouse.

I remember swearing loudly and running to the engine when the tones dropped.

I remember almost overshooting the address, and I remember the horrid moaning sound the engine's radial tires made as we literally skidded to a stop.

I remember leaping from the still-moving engine.

I remember the Doppler effect as the following ambulance shot past us, siren wailing, unable to stop in time.

 

I remember a tall staircase, narrow but straight.

I remember a tiny bedroom with too many rescuers in it.

I remember compressions, and ventilations, and “No shock advised.”

I remember an ambulance disappearing over the horizon.

 

I remember futility.

I remember we were too late.

I remember.

 

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