My father took
o n e
h u n d r e d
a n d
t h i r t y - t w o
m i n u t e s
t o
d i e.
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 a t r i p and a j o u r n e y ? "
and my father said,
"Narnie, my love, when we get there, you'll understand,"
and that was
t h e
l a s t
t h i n g
h e
e v e r
s a i d .
We heard her almost straightaway.
In the other car, wedged into ours so deep
that you couldn't tell
where o n e b e g a n
a n d
the o t h e r e n d e d .
She told us her name was Tate
and then she squeezed through
the g l a s s
a n d
the s t e e l
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
a n d
s a v e d
o u r
l i v e s.
Someone asked us later,
"Didn't you wonder
why no one came across you sooner?"
Did I w o n d e r ?
When you see your parents
zipped up in black body bags
on the Jellicoe Road
like they're some kind of garbage,
d o n ' t y o u k n o w ?
W o n d e r
d i e s .