This is for you!Out of her magic box of colorful pencils,Orange she picks out.She draws a tiny orange on a scrap of paper.I look at the precious scrap and wonder.My role in her life is writing scripts –Scripts that make her bowels moveAnd take away some pain perhaps, some.For the bladder, she calls her mom for tube in—Drip, drip, drip, —and tube out, every 4 hours!A 7-year-old in pull-ups, she chases her friendsIn her wheelchair. With smiles, she goes on.Friends from the church bus that fateful night,Now running around, their feet on the ground.Wheelchair as her legs, she tries to blend inCell phones and ringing sounds agonize her.The sight of her sister texting only terrifies her.Half-writ message on a broken, bloodied screen.-Car Driver killed upon impact, tumbling my bus.Police won’t say more. She wished they would.In fury she rams her wheelchair into the wall.-Leave me alone! Go away, you all!-You promised me I will walk in a year, Daddy!-Ants are running up and down my legs, Mommy.-Watch out! Orange, fiery lights ahead.A bad dream that’s all. Try to sleep!-I was the last they pulled out from under.-How could a small car wreck a bus?-The reverend says it was God’s work.-The Devil must be the phone then.