Blood. Steams. Traffic stopped. My daughter’s trike. Her shape under a sheet.
Later, TV reporters dissected my only child’s death. The press attributed my Hope’s death to a bad intersection; crash detectives agreed. The man who crushed all my future days in that crosswalk was never charged, but that didn’t absolve him from blame.
Daily, I brought M&M’s to her grave. My tears thawed cold Maryland clay. I pressed each candy into sticky mud.
The man surrendered his license, walked to bars.
Shadowing him, I weakened my brakes.
Later, reporters dissected his uncanny death.
The same intersection.