Driving Through Amish Country First Sunday, Family Day at the Drug Rehab

My husband says, I can’t go with you; we can’t fix
this curse. I straighten a rag rug on my kitchen floor,
grab my purse and keys. Our daughter’s dog bears witness
to my God help us voice.  Her heart will break
if your arms don’t catch her. He quips, she has a sponsor.
Love is a whip; my hopes for his hand vanish in smoke.
 
It’s summer, Amish families walk home from church, no smoke
rises above their chimneys. Craftsman, bonnets, come together, fix
barns, slice apples for pies. I bet there’s no dog hair on their floors.
Gawkers pull over, idle cars, watch work horses plow, witness
the old ways, grooming the land, mindful, careful not to break
its spine with tractor weight.  Sonny, our cousin, was a sponsor.
 
At Sonny’s wake, a sobbing man grabbed his cold palm. His sponsor–
Sonny—gone. Grief buckled the man’s knees. Sonny smoked.
Cancer ate him. Doctors used their big book, still, no drug to fix
his cells. Brother to my husband’s heart, Dave recalled a floor
Sonny’s home where they’d wrestled as boys, witnessed
Super Man on TV, stirred a bit of trouble by breaking
 
a clay nativity. Aunt Ruby wept, forgave them, nice things break
boys. You said you’re sorry; help me gather the pieces. Sponsors
are ladders, will patch a roof in an ice storm. Folks must divorce
  smoky
bars, friends who frequent them. The fresh path?  No easy fix
no spray to erase Honky Tonk smells, gritty cornmeal floors.
Couples ache to slow dance, bands need to play. Witness
 
faded jeans, worn boots, country music weekend singers. Witness
how we know all the words to Patsy’s “Crazy.” It breaks
the Top Ten Truth charts to hear them, and where’s the sponsor
to drive us home? We throw the dice, someone’s life is smoke.
Both our kids made poor choices, knots a parent can’t fix.
It keeps a mother up at night, journaling, walking her floors.
 
Court days we saw our kids in jumpsuits/handcuffs? The floor
barely braced our feet. A crusty judge, we had to witness
their names called. A spear went through our eyes. No break
for tears, wooden chair room, strangers stare, no sponsor
steadied our gait. Gunnysacks covered our heads, we were smoke
trailing the ash of our children’s plague. Us? No kind fix.
 
In group, I circle sat inches from a son, witnessed him break his
  mom.  
I wish you’d die. His tongue’s bullet, she fell to the floor, eyes dilated,
  fixed
fingers clutched a gold cross. No sponsor. Our room filled with
  smoke.