Reflections
And miles to go before I sleep…..
A cold, wet surface against his cheek…the pressure of something large, no enormous, smashing and holding him into place against that freezing, damp ….floor, maybe? He wasn't sure, couldn't even lift his head far enough to shake it in puzzlement.
Take a deep breath…..ok, that was good…a few more, doesn't hurt…..think, think, listen…..sound of water dripping, ominous creaking of beams, timbers frightening to hear but horribly comforting to recognize….muted but welcome sounds of distant voices, pounding feet, hoses dragging…the sweet sound of a newborn's cry….the sharp crack of a bat smacking the winning home run…..laughter echoing through the room. Bump bump of my heart, steady, maybe a little fast but that's good too, still alive, get the panic under control then assess the situation.
And miles to go before I sleep…
Funny how that keeps popping up in my thoughts, he mused, trying to lick his chapped lips and hold onto the little bit of moisture still in his mouth. Try not to cough, that would definitely be a bad thing….smell…dampness, mold maybe…..faint whiffs of smoke tickling his nose….odor of decay and a building past its prime but still struggling to live. Sharp, tangy breeze sliding off the ocean…..fresh cut grass invoking memories of endless summer nights…comforting, homey aroma of fried chicken. Damp, smoky turnout coat…his own sweat…..fear….can you smell fear? Maybe, but that's tamped down now, out of his range of smell anyway, just calm acceptance sliding in to take its place.
But I have promises to keep…
Where the hell did that keep coming from? A poem maybe, tickling, teasing the edges of his memory…kinda like the tickle beginning at the back of his throat…he stretches his gloved fingers out on his left hand, right hand and arm under him, starting to go numb from the weight of his body and the SCBA still attached to his back. He wonders where the mask is, pretty sure he had that on when he fell, slid, through that opening in the floor…maybe that's what is poking his neck…touch…cement under his scratching fingers….liquid of some kind, hopefully just water, slightly greasy. Ok, move that hand and arm a little bit, not completely pinned down, he feels something under his searching hand, shape feels familiar, almost comforting, what was he carrying? Flashlight, yeah, that's what it is. Not working anymore….. the switch under his thumb. The velvet silk of her skin under his fingers….the blessed relief of a cool cloth on fevered skin….proud slap of a hand against his shoulder…job well done. Eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, try to keep his head still, roughness scratching his skin but that's good, right? Can feel everything.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep…
Ok, definitely a poem. One of the guys, talking on the phone, repeating, encouraging, their kid to memorize the lines for English class. He closes his eyes briefly, something on his lip, metallic, coppery…taste…life's elixir, apparently, draining out of him, but slowly, nothing to worry about at all. Cold beer quenching the fire within…the sweetness of her breath in his mouth…..the woodsy, blurred savoring of a campfire on a chilly night. Salty, liquid, just sweat, or maybe from the corner of his closed eye….no, can't be that, firemen don't cry, do they?
Of easy wind and downy flake….
Really like that poem, must be why it keeps tugging, pulling, focusing the thoughts that are trying to skitter away. Shouldn't be night already, but so dark here…inky blackness enveloping, wrapping, smothering….take a deep breath, open the eyes and…..see. Blink, blink, try to focus…not much really to see, outlines of unknown things sharing the space with him, kind of a funny view of things laying here like this. He couldn't help the brief laugh that cleared his lips, leading of course to coughing, sucking in more of that moisture laden air. Truly is nothing to see….images of family, friends blurring through his mind….vivid, sharp hues of a golden, orange sunset…..postcard perfect picture of his fire academy graduation, proud, cocky, no doubts what so ever that he could and would do the job he loved. Not so bad, seeing the thousands of pictures fast forwarding through his mind.
The only other sound's the sweep…..
Sounds, yep, knew it wouldn't be long. How long has it been, minutes, hours…not sure but never doubted that his station mates, his friends, hell his family, would find him. They're above him now, around the jagged opening he, and whatever came after him, conveniently left for them to discover. He can see the shaft of light beaming through the hole, hear their voices, smell the anxiety, taste the victory, touch the knowledge that he has been found….lift the flashlight he still has his hand on, smack it hard against the unyielding surface, again and again…
"There! He's there…..hold on, we're coming….Johnny!"
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
By Robert Frost