Depth

The word help exits my mouth. My right arm waves in the air. A car passes, then another. Help, I yell. Help, I wave. The snow bank blocks their view. The frozen air (it's minus 3) chills my voice. Face down on ice, I squirm forward with one arm and two legs. The other arm (or wrist or both) drags along after a fall. Something bad has happened. Snap, crackle (and maybe pop) I heard on contact. Pain never felt before fills me. My body stills. My mind buzzes. Two dogs (my own) watch me. They sit relaxed while I make sounds never heard before; sounds never before made. My body stills. My mind talks. Call out your voice again, it says. And so, I do, from my gut, from somewhere under the belly. Raise up your arm again, it says. And so, I do, from my shoulder, from somewhere across the chest. And people hear me and see me. Two trucks, higher than a snow bank, stop. One is white like the snow. The other is blue (or black) probably like my injured limb (covered in parka and mitten). One driver jumps over the snow bank. The other rushes up the sidewalk. The first handles the dogs. Please take them home and remove their coats, I say. He goes away with them and returns with my backpack, wallet, keys. The second holds me up and walks me to his truck. You're gonna be okay kiddo, he says, and lifts me into the cab. He heads to a nearby hospital. They delivered my three children, he says, and glances at me. Maybe you should sit up, he says. I try, but I want to throw up somewhere other than here so I stay low, my head too heavy to lift. How did you see me, I ask. I heard the commotion, he says. We arrive at the hospital's emergency room door. He supports my good arm and removes me from the truck. Easy-beezy, he says, and places me in a chair the next helping strangers roll away.