What Is True

It is true
that my son ran
across a length of bleachers,
his denim jacket, unbuttoned,
lifting out behind elbows
as he flew down the steps
two or three yards to our right,
racing
toward his father and me.
 
It is true
the arena was cold,
loud with light and color, the crowd
moving behind us
to and from the concession stand
as we stood
near the half boards of the hockey rink,
near the other moms
to my left.
 
It is true
that my husband, to my right,
was a little closer to our son
as he approached.
 
But it is also true
that a scattering of freckles
and baby blue eyes
turning (from me?) up to his dad
were only partially blocked
by my husband's body
as I was turning back
to our ladies' conversation.
 
It is true
I turned back again
(was it one second? two?)
to hear my husband
shout through the din
"Can you breathe?"
only then to see the pleading look,
the slow shake of head,
to see my husband
grab him
turn him
bend
with arms around him
hard and fast
pull in—
once?
twice?
 
It is true
I saw something black rise
from my husband's back,
like years of his life—
or death—
as the Fireball 
lodged in our son's throat
flew out.
 
It is true
all of us were shaken,
but my husband saved him.
Our son was okay.
 
Nearly twenty years later, I think about it, what I didn't see, 
and how I turned away.