On the way to the hospital, I ask for a sign that it will be all right.

We take a wrong turn, and there is a church dedicated to my patron saint,


A grotto with the supplicant girl before the Queen of Queens (of Queens).

On the way to the hospital, I try to keep the feeling light.

“I want a puppy welcome wagon,” I say.

Turning the corner is an army in their Park Avenue collars,

Woofing my invite to stay in the world.