Monday, January 15, 2007
birthdays. and sunsets. and ghosts.
The crawl was the hardest. His claustrophobia probably came from it, from that day. He had to crawl in from under the bed, through the rear cab window. Had to squeeze in over the dead Father, so tightly he could feel how broken the body was. Then under the steering wheel and through the empty windshield, back onto desert floor. He found her there. she was pinned between the dirt and the hood. There was blood, but not a lot, and he knew why. The weight of the truck pressing down, crushing her, was keeping her from bleeding to death. But not by much. He stretched and squished as much as he could, to reach her. Pulse was weak, her hand cold. tiny hand, she couldn't have been older than ten. the truck groaned above him, shifted a bit. but he held on. She died after five more minutes. but still, he held on. Another ten, just to be sure she wouldn't be alone.
That day, the day she died, was his eighteenth birthday. Almost twenty years ago, but he can still find himself there, so clear he can taste the dust in the air. To his growing frustration, he can't capture it. Can't write it, can't draw it. This isn't it. It's closer than he's gone, but it's just a whisp, a glance. a ghost. not even close.
