Pool_2

between father and daughter, a river of tears - to her eyes from his. He was crying FOR her, as she could not. Dirt on his face framed that tributary. His neck throbbed in mixed hope and despair, choking on what he knew but was wanting away.

We knew death. Death was our partner, always ready, but now unsure. Rocky and this child? The Pieta'. His right hand grappled, like talons, into her shoulder, his left hand clutching her cold right thigh, trying to pull her back from a metamorphosis too far gone. Clinging desperately, trying to hold life within her and unable to do so, he appealed to us, 'THIS ONE IS MINE!'

His nostrils flared. His right lower lip twitched out of step with chattering teeth in a breakdown of bodily control. Wild eyes implored a savior to step forth and shepherd this lamb back into his fold.

In the center - of the startled and empty hood of Death - caught unawares, hung a tear - suspended in space on that invisible cheek. Death cried for him, as we took her. A mere whisper, 'Please. Save her,' came from this broken man. Another whisper, unearthly, came into our minds from Death, 'Please save him.' We did it for him. We did it for Rocky. We slaved to save her. She was gone, but he needed time to let her go. Her head was askew on her body, a trophy to the woman whose drunken hands followed drunken eyes to a child picking flowers in the grass, and whose car followed shameful hands. We did it for him. It was, perhaps, just another notch to drugs and alcohol, but this scar of his, is somehow - mine.