Poetry Slam

 

I’m Angry

 

I’m angry that we cleaned your room that day in June, when we should have been playing outside and enjoying the world.

 

I’m angry that I allowed you to call a friend to come over. 

 

And I’m angry, because the two of us were impatient, and I suggested we go down the street to meet your playmate.

 

I’m angry that I let you ride your bike, even though your helmet on.  If only I had simply said, “No, not today.”

 

I’m angry with the seventeen year old driver. What on earth was he doing as he drove up the road?  Was he fiddling with the radio?  Was he looking at his new video rental? He says he saw you in our driveway, so why didn’t he keep watching you? 

 

I’m angry that you weren’t watching what was going on in the road.

 

I’m angry that when you saw the car coming up the road, you panicked and used your feet to brake instead of the pedals.  I know you could have stopped, if you only had been thinking logically and used the brakes.

 

Taking it one step further, I’m angry with you for doing something stupid. If you couldn’t stop, you could have ridden left or right or even fallen off your bike, but instead you rode your bike out in front of a car!

 

I’m incredibly angry with myself for being angry that you did something stupid. 

 

And I am angry with myself.  At that moment, you were scared and as your mama, I couldn’t calm your fears or help you make wise, snap decisions.

 

And still more anger with myself … Why didn’t I run after you? If I had run after you, would the outcome have been different?

 

I am angry that I covered my eyes when you were hit.  I’m your mom, and it was my responsibility to see what you endured.

 

And I’m angry with the driver. How could drive past our house and our neighbor’s, too before he ever knew he hit you? 

 

I’m angry that your shoe went flying across the road, and that you lay on the street in front of our driveway without being able to utter a word; we never spoke again.

 

I’m angry that they took you away in the ambulance, and I had to sit up front with the driver instead of with you.

 

I’m angry that I had to make phone calls over the ambulance’s screaming siren, to alert my husband and son.  My husband needed to get home from El Paso, and my son needed a safe place to stay.

 

I’m angry that they didn’t let me stay by your side in the hospital.  You cried out for me. You were so close, and yet so far away.

 

I’m angry that I learned you were in critical condition, not from the doctor, himself but because he told the police officer, who stood across the hall from me.

I’m angry that a doctor told me that you probably weren’t going to make it. He tried to comfort me saying you were everyone’s little girl right then, and he would try his best, but I was hearing the news that no mama should ever hear.

 

I’m angry that I was taken to a little room where bad news is told.

 

And now I’m angry that God has another angel.

 

But I’m still here … But I’m still here.