Smoke rises from the ground. Two piles of rubble still in flames smolder and shift. An ambulance and fire truck race, sirens blaring lights flashing violently. A long line of red trails behind the crash, as cars hit their brakes and try to get out of the way. Traffic slows to a crawl. Cop cars fly down the road from the opposite direction. The cars look like ants from the news helicopters, circling the site buzzards.
Rubble and debris litter the road. The crushed metal everywhere. Heat blazes and danger fills the smoke. One part of a dark colored car now blazes red. The back wheels of the truck bear down on the hood and roof of the little sedan, like a large man’s boots crushing it mercilessly. The car shifts and moans as it tries to stay upright, filled out, normal. It’s roof sinks and groans. More groans respond, but not from the car. His passenger. A mother. He must try to protect her. But his strength is waning. He’s dying, this little sedan that has lasted so long. Just a little longer he thinks as he hears sirens approach him and voices shout.
Mom slams on the brakes the vehicle swerves uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she keeps repeating as she white knuckles steering wheel. Inches from a tan pick up, the car finally stops silence fills a small interior. Then voices:
“Is everyone alright?”
“What was that?”
“You did good.”
Conversation grows as we all console each other. The cars all around us creep forward and then we all see why we almost crashed. A sedan is being crushed under the back wheels of a large white pickup. Another car may be involved, but I don’t really know. All I can see as we pass is the small pink blanket laying among the shattered windshield of the sedan. A baby I think as voices shout and professionals race about frantically. Lights flash and then it’s gone, the scene passes, our car continues down the highway.
If only the crash had been a piece of love. Then maybe I wouldn’t be worrying about that small pink blanket, and what may have been wrapped it once upon a time.