The Car Never Stopped
One evening when we were kids,
my younger brother
happened to be looking out the kitchen window
when Reva,
our low to the ground golden retriever mutt
who had just made a full recovery from heart worms,
raced under the back porch light
headed for the street.
We didn't stop to try and figure out
who left the gate open.
We sprinted out the front door
just in time to see her
flung from a hell-fiery pair of headlights
into the ditch, slimy with old rainwater and litter,
lying in shadow.
As cars continued whizzing by,
her face was flashing a reddish glow,
her tongue already stiff and hanging out.
My brother jerked backwards
hunkered over, tightly shutting his eyes,
his flowing tears another stream feeding the ditch,
wailing like a car horn.
It was as if he had been hit too.
For a second I thought he had.
In a way I guess he had.
Supposedly, autistic kids don't show emotion;
that is the car still hitting me.
Jordan Tate 