From the Other Side of the Gap

 I don’t know you,

but I saw the red-and-blue flashes.

A bit of open street before a long line of traffic,

emergency vehicles stopped at angles where they shouldn’t have been.

A black car slammed nose-first into a cement pole,

white airbags pushing outward against the windows.

People in uniform stood in the gray dawn,

directing traffic, their faces grim.

I had just left home.

I was on my way to work as the sun rose behind me,

listening to my audiobook, thinking about my new job.

And then, just past the black car,

I saw the twisted, charcoal wreckage

resting in the middle of a neighborhood entrance—

both wheels still intact enough to recognize it as a vehicle.

I noticed where two police cars were parked

nose-to-bumper in the bike lane,

and through the tiny gap between

I saw what they were trying to shield:

the lumpy yellow sheet spread on the sidewalk.

And I knew.

Maybe you had just left home too.

Maybe you were on your way back after a long overnight shift.

Like I said, I don’t know you.

But my mind’s eye saw the rift

hovering above your bike—

the foggy tear in the fabric of reality,

the portal where you left this life.

It was shaped like the entrance to a womb.

And I can’t help but wonder if you knew.

Did you have a feeling it would be your last day

in that body?

Did you sense the transition approaching?

Did you know anyone would care when you left?

Someone always cares.

Whether it’s the officer who directs cars around the scene,

the EMT who pulls the sheet over you,

the crew who picks up the wreckage and cleans the bloodstains,

the other driver who survives,

or the random stranger who passes by

and honors the dignity of your passage out.

I don’t know you,

but I observed your last morning.

I saw the closing gap in space and time where you departed.

And I think about you every time I drive home.

I wonder if you knew

you would be witnessed.