What If...

I wrote the following post over a year ago. I have updated the information as things have happened, but wasn't able (emotionally) to post it until now. Rest in peace, young man.

A boy from Nooze’s school was killed last week.  He wasn't in a gang or in any kind of fight.  He was crossing the road - in the dark - to get to his bus stop.

This sweet boy – brilliant, kind, all-around good kid, was hit head on by someone too busy, or too distracted to slow down for the flashing red lights of a school bus.

Rumors swirling about the legality of the driver, insurance coverage (or lack thereof) and expired driver’s license are roaring through the town at lightning speed. (His license was expired, but it appears to be an oversight, not malice.) The photo taken of him at the police station doesn't show a demon; it shows a grandfather – broken, aching, haunted. Full of remorse.

Maybe the driver was late. Maybe he was distracted.  Maybe, just maybe, he simply wasn't aware of the laws. Maybe the lights flashed too late for him to stop.  Maybe the boy ran into the road too early.

It doesn't matter, because it’s too late.  A precious child is dead.

I have been crying about this since I heard the news.  Crying harder when I heard the details: Single mother, multiple children, no insurance.  She can’t afford to bury her own child. Local funeral homes recommended that she donate her child’s body to science. That way, embalming, study and eventual cremation would occur free of charge.

What kind of solace is that to a grieving parent? How callous. How awful. How insensitive.

I can’t help but think of how I would handle this situation.  This boy was Nooze's age.  What if this had happened to MY baby? What if I couldn't afford to bury my child? What if I was the driver that struck a child on a dark, cold morning, when I was too tired, too distracted too…SOMETHING…to see them in the road in front of me. The ache is just too much to bear.

I insist on waiting at the bus stop with Nooze the next morning. It doesn't matter that she doesn't have to cross the street.  It’s dark, and the light at the end of our road is on the fritz again.  She thinks I’m overreacting.  I don’t care.  As we wait for the bus to arrive, I see…2, 3, 4, 5 other cars pull up behind me.  The bus arrives, lights flashing.  Kids stomp out of the cars, slamming doors, shaking their heads and sighing.  I smile sadly, because I know.

I know that I am not alone.  In my sadness, my anger, my fear.  We’re all together in our thinking.  The bus pulls away, and all six cars pull out one by one, driving slowly behind.  In the dark, quiet rain, our wipers and tires join in a syncopated whisper, “What if…what if…what if…”