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
b r e e z y 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 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
d
i
e
s
.