Wintersweet Magazine

The car is quiet when it finds the side of the road. Fear
has stolen the breath from our lungs, the fight
from our hearts. Time has stopped. Surely this is
a nightmare, and I will wake soon to my alarm. But the red
and blue lights mock me from the corner of my vision,
and I know this is real. Her curls, ones she had cursed
at in this thick summer heat, were tossed messily in a bun.
Even in the dying light of dusk, I can see that her eyes
are blown wide in anticipation. Bronze-colored skin
has lost its life. Her hands grip the steering wheel in a
chokehold, her thumb, covered in chipped blue nail polish,
tracing a slow cross motion across the dark brown of its
leather cover. I stare at the rosary that sways gently as it
hangs from her mirror. In case I ever forget my necklace, she
had once told me. Her collar bones stand bare
for the world to see. There is a terrible feeling deep
in my soul when he taps on the window, looming
with all the confidence he has stolen from us. His hands
rest on his hips, his holster a beacon of all that we fear
and all that we loathe. Her hands stay firmly in their place
when he demands proof of her legality. Time moves
slowly as I reach to grab it from the console. If I move
steadily enough, he will mistake my terror for confidence.
As he takes it from my outstretched hand, I’m struck
with the thought of Adam and God, whose hands reached,
straining to touch. The creation of mankind. Perhaps we
exist in the space between the two. The tension of creation,
the tension of life, the tension of death. Her thumb traces
her cross over and over again, her voice soft and careful,
her movements easy and predictable. She becomes such
a sweet little thing. It makes me want to throw up
and scream at him all at once. I am sure he can hear
our hearts beating in our throats, see the tremor of our
hands, feel our stillness, smell our fear. He smiles softly,
his eyes dark, and I’m sure of it.