My father took
                     one hundred and thirty-two minutes
                   to die.

                 I counted.

               It happened on the Jellicoe Road.
             The prettiest road I'd ever seen,
           where trees made breezy canopies
         like a tunnel to Shangri-la.

       We were going to the ocean,
     hundreds of miles away,
   because I wanted to see the ocean
 and my father said that it was about time
   the four of us
     made that journey.

       I remember asking,
         "What's the difference
           between
             a trip
               and
                 a journey?"
                   and my father said,
                     "Narnie,
                       my love,
                     when we get there,
                   you'll understand,"
                 and that was the last thing
               he ever said.

             We heard her almost straightaway.
           In the other car,
         wedged into ours
       so deep that you couldn't tell
     where one began
   and the other ended.
 She told us her name was Tate
   and then she squeezed through
     the glass
       and
         the steel
           and climbed over her own dead-
             -just to be with Webb
               and me;
                 to give us her hand
                   so we could clutch it
                     with all our might.

                       And then a kid called Fitz
                     came riding by
                   on a stolen bike
                 and saved our lives.

               Someone asked us later,
             "Didn't you wonder
           why no one came across you sooner?"

         Did I wonder?

       When you see
     your parents
   zipped up
 in black body bags
   on the Jellicoe Road
     like they're some kind of garbage,
       don't you know?

                       Wonder dies.