You told me the story of the elevator,

the baby in your arms blue,

newly dead in the Boston Hospital.

You, riding up to greet the mother

that wants to hold the baby

before good-bye.

You, blow-drying it to give it warmth

to feel more real, alive in the mother’s arms.

You, the social worker, with the strength of

a mother, separated wife,

and cancer survivor.

You, blow-drying your own new hair,

giving it warmth

before you greet the elementary school students,

the traumatized ones

that survived the shootings, the ones

you will help today.