As I drove the dark country roads
to your house,
the rain fell in sheets
over the car windshield.
It was like looking through
obscure glass without light
on the other side,
and yet somehow
I knew
bad things were coming.
Pulling over, my heart pounded.
I covered my ears,
trying to stifle the cymbal-like
crashing noise inside my head.
Sweat burned my eyes.
I couldn’t breathe.
Cranked the window,
let the cold rain sting my face.
Miraculously, I drove the final mile
into your driveway -
spilled out of my car
onto the ground.
And then you were there,
looking terrified.
I sidestepped you -
ran to the house,
curled up on the sofa.
Saw you pick up the phone, but
waived you off.
“Panic attack,” I whispered.
You brought me a glass of water
and a towel,
dried my face -
held my hand.
I started shaking uncontrollably
signaling the attack’s end.
You sat with me -
ran your fingers through my hair,
said how much you loved me.
“Everything will be okay.”
But my body knew better.
Two years later, you were gone
and the panic went on and on
for forty years - and still.

© Laura DeHart Young