His baseball mitt lay lifeless in the trunk, among a million tiny squares of glass. Under the crumpled, caved-in roof, the policeman had wedged the twisted bumper awkwardly across the back seat.
I reached in, grabbed the mitt, shook it, and held it close. Just three hours earlier, he had yelled, “Mom, I’m going for a catch,” while heading to his car—this car, that had spun and rolled like a toy, and ultimately given up, defeated, its innards filled with foul smelling airbags, its body battered and bashed in.
And my boy had emerged, with only that fickle invincibility bruised.