As the autumn sun

sank low on the left

side of the gravel road

Dad drove her twenty miles

to St. Aloysius Hospital.

The sisters said

they were sorry

the doctor was out

on a distant farm.

You have to wait for him.

The harvest moon rose high in

a somber sky bringing

compelling pains,

fierce, insistent.

It’s time, she said.

Two nurses held her legs,

pushed them flat to the bed.

No. Wait, they muttered

to her, to me.

Shh, they hissed.

Quiet,

they commanded,

as she writhed

in agony.

At the noon of night

I struggled to be free,

fought to breathe, to live,

to let my voice be heard.

Dad told me, it was a

beautiful October morning.

He shot a pheasant

on the way home.