Every Saturday, her dad
Would grill in their backyard;
With charcoal hot on cinder blocks,
While she kept watch and guard.
And savory and sapid-sweet
Were those times without care;
Until the day the grill went cold,
And her dad wasn’t there.
See, no one lit those coals again,
Although she looked in vain;
In bars and underneath soft sheets
She sought that taste again.
She could not find her lost charcoal;
Her desperate search – no trace –
Till she woke in a small white room
With charcoal on her face
Thanks for posting this again! I love the way you tell this story. While it’s disturbing, touching, heartbreaking and even hopeful, there’s a strong thread of sweetness that runs throughout. We used to use activated charcoal in pediatrics when kids would come in with poison injestion /overdose, etc … nobody ever left the crisis room without some trace of charcoal somewhere on their person. Hard to contain, but it worked.
Thank you, Lola.
Alas, I’ve seen it’s use firsthand. It does work.
Thank God.