10/09/2025
I Hear You
Clock in. Sit down.
Night wraps the town.
Login. Deep breath.
Prepare for life… for death.
Headset on—my shift begins.
A world of losses, a world of wins.
“911—what’s your emergency?”
You lean on hope. You lean on me.
I hear you—your baby in your arms,
Tears like rivers, sounding alarms.
My voice stays calm, my words are clear,
Though your fear is loud, I keep you near.
“Press down, now count—one, two, three, four…”
You’re breaking inside, but still push more.
“Don’t stop,” I plead, “just one breath more…”
Until sirens arrive and burst through the door.
A click. Disconnect. I wipe my face.
No time to pause—another case.
“911—what’s your emergency?”
More pain, more fear comes pouring to me.
I hear the crash, the mangled steel—
The kind of pain you scream, not feel.
You’re upside down, your voice is thin,
But I stay with you. I draw you in.
“They’re close,” I say. “Just breathe with me.
Hold on, hold on—help soon you’ll see.”
Sirens echo through the night,
A fragile thread between your fright.
Finally—“extrication complete.”
I whisper, “You’re safe now,” before I retreat.
A deep breath. Another call.
No time to falter. No time to fall.
“Yes, I’m here,” my steady tone.
Though you feel lost, you’re not alone.
“Breathe with me, we’ll get you through.”
And then—a pause. Did I lose you?
A word breaks through: “I’m okay.” Relief—
A quiet hero behind the grief.
Finally help arrives at last.
I hang up slow, my heart beats fast.
Shift’s almost done.
But the night has a weight, heavy as stone.
Headset off, the voices remain—
The echoes of fear. The echoes of pain.
Faces unseen, but voices true…
They linger inside me.
I hear you.
