Hoping for the best

My dog is in the hospital.
There are some details, like: lowered platelet counts,
elevated white-cell counts and body-core temperature
irregularities - but noone seems to know exactly what
the trouble really is.
So for now, poor Jack is over there at the veterinary place,
with IV lines and medications and stranger-dogs
who are also sick and far away from their homes.
I am hoping he will be okay, and that we will not
be having that awful pet discussion - the one that
starts with money and ends with no.
I am hoping for the best.
In the meantime, I am hanging on to all the little things,
the everyday stuff that makes life such a fabulous ride.
A handmade postcard from my good friend C.
Ray LaMontagne singing on Austin City Limits,
right when I needed him most.
The shocking green fingers of Lucifer Crocosmia
reaching out of the ground, pointing toward spring
in spite of this endless rain.
My daughter's profile - mostly obscured by her long, red hair -
as she says out loud, "You are a good mother, Mom."
The big round cookie with pale pink frosting
that I ate this morning as I drove around the sound.
Electric violins.
A bowl of my own green chili.
Donald Sutherland in Klute, as he lies down on the floor
and cradles Jane Fonda so gently in his arms.
The Food Network.
Slippers.
My library card.
And the guy who sat in front of me at the meeting I went to tonight:
with his big red coat and his clean white shoes
and the two faded tears tattooed right beside his left eye.
He had on a ball cap, jammed tough on his head, and he sat all
squared and tight; maintaining, listening hard.
But all the while, back where he couldn't see,
downy bits of hair were tufting out below his cap;
feathery bits of vulnerability foiling every one
of his efforts to keep that under wraps.
And for just a moment, I could see into his house,
where he was soft, and afraid, and hoping for the best.

bs