Every shower, Every evening, as I lay, Every time I close my eyes I see them Twisted and mangled Their wide eyes, reflecting His face The back of my eyelids Are coated with their faces Always a minute too late

You know something is wrong when dispatches voice is shaky. It's a small town, calls like this happen once a year, if we're lucky. "12 year old boy, asphyxiation, emergency aid needed" I've always hated how vague the calls were. It was never enough information to properly prepare, and they were usually exaggerated. But we all knew this was a bad one. Usually we joke around on the way over, to relieve tension or mentally prepare for whatever we face ahead, be it a broken arm or a heroin overdose. But there was no laughing this time, no snide remarks or gossip. Just the dull screech of the sirens, and the silence in the cabin. We were still silent as we hurried up the front steps. We had assumed the worst, and brought everything. Defib, pediatric aid bag, stair chair, suction unit, everything. Yet no amount of gauze can prepare your eyes, your brain. The mother was wordless. She just pointed us to his room. His door was marked with warning stickers and faux military signs, just what you'd expect from a young teenage boy. It reminded me of the door to my room, only a few years ago. The crew captain opened the door slowly. It felt like an eternity, all I could hear was my heart in my chest. I knew what to expect. It was obvious at this point. But no amount of preparation could be enough. He had hung himself. He was 12 years old, and he had hung himself. As a cadet, I rarely help with the actual physical treatment. I take down paperwork, interview family and witnesses and victims. Take note of the injuries, medications, allergies. But we never went over this in our months of training. And it didn't feel right to break the silence to ask for help. I attempted to write down information, as I saw in the corner of my eyes they prepared to cut him down. I left the room, stood by the mother who refused to look. We stood together, wordless. It felt like hours. I pride myself in my thick skin to this stuff, but lately it's been getting harder and harder.

“Wow, look at the moon” The silence that followed Told me all I needed to know In that moment We were both staring at the same thing And we knew it Sure, it was thousands of miles away But for once, Our eyes were gazing upon the same thing I wish I was up there Standing on that sphere Of rock, and dust Because in that moment We would have finally looked each other in the eyes

The 8th of January, 2016 The sun had set a few hours ago As I approached my bed, I noticed I noticed how it seemed to loom over me I noticed how I stared at it with a hesitation A trepidation I staggered And my knees gave way To the weight of my body Slumped against the wall I wondered What was the point? Of closing my eyes Embracing the slumber If just to wake up And live through the same day Again Again and Again I sat there for six hours Until the sun rose

I feel like everything around me is slowly dimming, like a sunset. I want to reach out, to grab it, to pick it back up. To keep it in the sky. Keep it shining. Keep it gleaming. But, well, you can’t pick up the sun. I just have to stand here, and wait for it to rise again. But I don’t know how long, how cold, how dark the night will be. I don’t know what will happen, if anything. But the sun will rise again, just like it always does. It will. Won’t it?