Miracles and Buckets
Josh Flores
Miracles exist. They do. The fact tears still flow after crying out barrels, qualifies as one.
Lukewarm, bitter coffee in an all-too-small cup from a hospital vending machine becomes another miracle. The dark liquid begins its job as it hits my tongue, pushing caffeine-induced energy into my sleep-deprived muscles.
I watch Nurse Vigore as she administers care to my teenage baby girl.
Frankie lies with tubes out of her left arm. Wires, bunched into cords, run on both sides of her battered, tiny frame. A machine’s screen dances with a lightning bolt blipping while beeps announce her body is functioning, A thick, clear pipe pumps life-sustaining air through her mangled mouth and into her bruised chest. I know this, yet I don’t see any of it. I only see my
