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.