THE ACCIDENT

Cars were diverted to one lane, moving forward at a small crawl. The sky was inky slate and the lights from the first responder vehicles pulsed in cherry brights and electric blue beams. I saw a man standing next to a truck with a tractor and equipment attached, several cops huddled nearby. Then there was a stretch of pavement mirroring the night and a white sheet covering something. More black concrete and then another truck, more cop cars. I crept forward and the pulsing lights continued, reinforced by the multiple lights at the intersection. Stoplights. Red. I hit my brakes. In my mind, I imagined the sheet again, the forms and shapes underneath. I imagined debris of organic material, from a farm. Pumpkins. Gourds. Smashes of their flesh and pulp. 

It is the body of Laurie, I would find out the next day. Laurie, who had a 12 year old cat named Zima with gray fur and a pink nose, and white tipped ears and cheeks. “Let’s help this beautiful kitty find a loving home” a friend shared on social media, hoping to reach someone through friends of friends who would take a 12 year old cat who had maybe only ever known its elderly companion. A photo showed Laurie holding Zima in her arms. Laurie wore a plush blue robe covered in white puffy clouds and stood in black boots, the laces undone and dragging on the floor. Her grey hair thinly draped her wrinkled face. Then in a single act in the night, strangers were passing by her body, witnesses to her death. 

I thought of the Palestinians, who have lived for 36 months in a nightmare of torn flesh from shrapnel, flesh on fire, bomb after bomb, witnesses to endless death. Entire family lineages have been destroyed. Each member is a single life, a life like Laurie. Or you. Or me. The survivors? Traumatized. No one is coming to help them to survive or to properly bury their loved ones. The entire world has been witnessing it with no changes. 

My home is warm and has faucets, sturdy beds, curtains, plants, and a piano. I have ice cubes and a coffee pot. I have the ashes of my husband in a thick glass-stained blue and green box, where I can look upon it anytime I want; I can touch it tenderly every day. It is surrounded by books of poetry, vinyl records, his old trombone case covered in a collection of stickers, and a framed photo of him fishing on the Nestucca. He stood with his gear on a large boulder, a smile of simple pleasure on his face, in his favorite spot, surrounded by evergreens. 

I feel guilty maybe for not adopting Zima the cat. Also as a witness to the Palestinians’ suffering with little I am able to do. And even though it is natural, I feel guilty for smiling and going about my everyday living while Dan is wildly missing from us–something that my guilty brain also still finds completely surreal even after a year and a half. It never ends. I do what little I can. I said a prayer for Laurie. I shared the post about Zima. I contact my representatives, and advocate for Palestinian rights. And for Dan, I listen to the bird calls. I tell Raine when something he does or says is like his dad. I make a batch of chili enough times that I can do it without looking at the recipe. I watch the trees, welcome sunlight in the winter, and listen to music. I write.