whitefeather

What? What? What?

The next morning I awoke early, dreadful breathing sighs into chamomile tea. I walked to work, tears breaking as waves. Later we drove to the site of your crash, where your family was already gathered. The sun was high and hot. We listened and walked as members of your tribe lead us from the end point, where your car came to rest. Back through where you tumbled and spit shards of glass and plastic, back, back where the grass was barely bent, to where you swerved off Old Olympic Highway. There weren’t even marks on the road. Back to the point where twenty-feet-further-you-wouldn’t-have-rolled. And we faced your mother while elders sang your spirit safely to the other side. I saw you laying in the field, pulling up grass and laughing.

I was dehydrated and head throbbing, numb. Oren bought us sandwiches and drove us to a bluff where we sat in the open hatchback shaded by trees. He made jokes and distractions; scooping up pebbles of time, and tossing them gently behind me.

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