The last time we made our way
through the airport to visit the spot
where he fell, his heart seizing in
a kind of arrest he’d never imagined,

we found it glassed-in and utterly
devoid of human life. The day he
collapsed, we stood, boarding passes
in hand, near the end of the line

at Gate C1, tired and happy after
a fortnight on an island we loved.
There was no sense of confinement,
no transparent box then—

and thank goodness. It allowed
two strangers—one a firefighter,
one a nurse—behind us to reach us
quickly, drop to their knees

and begin the work of trying to save
a life, which, we later learned, rarely
works in these cases. But, with the help
of an electrical heart-starter,

as we came to think of the magical,
life-restoring device, it did.
A few years later we couldn’t make
our pilgrimage to the precise spot

that changed our lives forever.
But we stood nearby, still in awe
of death and transfiguration,
a hard restart that utterly remade us,

stunningly giving us more time
together—a gift,
I often remind myself,
not to be taken lightly.