July 2, 2013
I never got a good photo of him. Over two months, I got only body parts dismembered from each other. Even though they were behind unstained glass, the listless traffic cops filtered all the life out of even a torso wrapped in a plaid shirt. The distance made distortion echo, (6.6 hours and 624 kilometers of it) and there was only so much I could take. Between two kidneys on the same side, a propensity to do stupid things, the two broken ribs, the dislocated shoulder, and the blackened eye that stopped seeing me at all— (I must remember to remind him: a child with blond hair and green eyes sits with her sandwich, the crusts cut off. I do not want her. I do not want her.) —these were simply hiccups. Mistakes, baby, that he didn’t mean. But I didn’t know how he would end it. I didn’t know he was driving drunk.