by Dan Dillard
*****
We all watched as John pulled in the driveway. He exited the car, upset and confused. We walked outside to meet him and I watched as he made a mental head count. It wasn't until he looked out at the mayhem on the street and saw the dark red stain on the pavement, the ambulance parked next to a crushed pink bicycle. It was only then that he realized the worst had occurred. He shouted and dropped to his knees. Mom rushed over to hold him.
“Can I see her?” he said.
She was already in the coroner’s vehicle, already pronounced dead at the scene, already packed up to go into her tiny closed casket, then wherever children go.
“You don't want to, John. God, I wish I hadn't. I wish the boys hadn't. There was…nothing left.”
More tears. We held each other and went inside the house. I was surprised there was no shouting and no violence from John McNeill. He didn’t even drink that night. Actually, no one spoke for the rest of the evening and Danny and I went to bed early, camped out on the floor next to each other in the same makeshift tent. Shel Silverstein’s book was still there, still open to a poem about a man who grows out his beard instead of wearing clothes. For once, it provided no comfort. I didn’t think we would sleep that night, but we did.
My parents made arrangements the next day. They purchased a tiny coffin and ordered some flowers. Then we all tried to find some comfort in closure.
Art by Schuyler Dillard.
