Rescue

You leaned against the wall, feet
off the ground, propped on chairs
pushed up to the table, giggling,
chattering, continuing the giddiness
that had blessed today's breakfast, while
I buttered my toast across the kitchen,
attempting to keep up conversation, to keep up
with your good cheer. Then, 
somewhere between "Hey Google" 
and the reliable response, the switch flipped. 
A breathless, playful call for help, transformed
into a panicked, full-throated cry. 
Your balance had shifted. Everything became
precarious, unpredictable, threatening.
Google blithely rattled off the answer

to my now utterly irrelevant question, 
and I could only stand staring like a sailor
watching a sudden summer squall swamping the decks.
Those waves swept us both, powerless, overboard.
Feet safely back on the floor, you glared,
tearfully condemning me for  my betrayal:
How could I just stand there and watch,
consign you to the sea, to the depths,
and not save you? 
Survival was small consolation. 
Mutely accepting your wordless accusation,
I hoped only that I would be given another chance
the next time you need a rescue.