2004 Honda Civic
If I had wanted to care for a child I would’ve
taken better care of myself. The first time I
climbed into a car I thought my whole body
would give out, that my hands would tremble
and my heart would stop and my feet wouldn’t
be strong enough to press the pedals. Maybe I
did have blue moon eyes as a child but all I’ve seen
in the rearview mirror since is an eclipse. I’ve always
been afraid of deer, of their desperation and wobbly
long legs, the flash of headlights seconds before the
collision. Do you remember when I slammed on the
brakes in the dark and the seatbelt jolted me back
and that deer stood in the road, big brown doe eyes
gleaming in the harsh yellow light, bright and raw and
unafraid like wild things are? I don’t want to cause
a collision but it would be too simple. It would’ve been
so easy to have never stopped at all, to round the bend
and let the bones shatter like it was nothing. Do you
remember the bluejay we buried? Same brand of
wild innocence, fragile wings bent and broken, and
I held it and I thought it would be so painfully easy to
(crush out every last dying breath) put it out of its
misery. We buried it there under the birch trees. Last
time I saw that backyard, they were beginning to rot.
Elliot DelSignore is a writer and student from New Hampshire, where he
writes fiction and political pieces for his school's literary site. When he isn't writing, he enjoys skiing, debate, and learning about history and art.
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