(April 27, 2001)
You wear your backpack in the car
ready to jump out at the drop off,
your goodbye swallowed by the door slam.
And you are gone, jacket slapping against your legs.
You and your brother
found innovative ways to make us late today.
So you both ate pop-tarts on the way to school.
I pull out, hope traffic on Storrow Drive
won't be too bad. It's Friday and
you can never tell.
I tune in NPR on the radio.
I wait for the weather report. It looks like
the birthday party can be outside tomorrow.
I ignore the market report. Traffic builds.
I hear Newton and oak hill middle school and bus accident.
Children dead.
My boys are safe. I am horrified
by my relief.
Somewhere in Newton
there is a mother who hasn't turned on the news yet.
I want to freeze this moment for her.
I want to stay her hand.
Wait, I shout.
Wait.
The seat is covered with your breakfast.
I leave the crumbs on the velour.
I am not angry anymore.