The Collision

I told him what a great job of listening he’d done, waiting for me even though he’d been like 50 feet ahead and having so much fun, I was proud of him. That was awesome, I said. Wait at the corner, OK man?

The corner was about 20 feet away. He’d stopped a thousand times over the last few months, at every corner, every time, without fail. He always stopped. He always listened.

Until he didn’t.

Carefree, oblivious, blissfully unaware, perfect qualities, everything you want in a 3 year old, not caught up in all the shit we have to be aware of, involved in, just doing his thing.

I said wait.

He didn’t hear me, or pretended not to, or didn’t want to hear me, or couldn’t hear me. He gave a huge kick, rode with one leg up on the handlebars, hopped and bopped. I know he was smiling. But he had no idea what was coming.

I did.

I saw it all unfold, everything unraveling, right there, I watched it all.

I yelled stop.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He didn’t flinch.

He zipped, gracefully, down the sidewalk, over the curb cutout, and into the street.

A car pulled out from a stop sign. A big, black dog took up the entire front passenger seat. I couldn’t even see the driver.

Stop.

STOP.

STOP!

No one listened.

I ran, knowing completely there was nothing I could do to stop anything.

My son was going to get hit by a car.

STOP!

The car kept going.

Joe kept going, smiling I was sure. Still riding on one foot.

STOP!

The whole thing happened so quickly, from the time he left my side until the time I picked him up off the street, couldn’t have been more than 20 seconds.

There was a 10-second span of time where- and you hear people say this and think they’re full of shit- but everything else stopped, EVERYTHING. It was me running and yelling and overseeing everything, I was a powerless god. I’d never felt so helpless, so scared, terrified, so doubtful, so sure, so alone. The car was a gray blob, a black flash, a filthy cloud, a fist, a knife, a bullet. And Joe was… Joe. He was perfect. He was beautiful. He was hilarious. He was adorable. He was joyful. He was the love of our life.

And then the collision.

Two tons of metal on 32 pounds of life, our little boy.

I picked him up. I held him.

Time no longer stood still. It moved more quickly than ever.

He cried as I held him close, his arms wrapped around my neck. Never lost consciousness. Wasn’t run over. Didn’t fly through the air. No open wounds. No visible breaks.

I put him down.

He could stand.

Can you walk?

He could.

I held him.

Everything slowed down, back to normal.

That quickly, everything changed, and nothing changed.

I carried him home, told his mommy what had happened. We went to the ER. Broken clavicle. He was OK. He was still Joe, the same Joe from yesterday, nothing had changed, and everything had changed.