Every mother harbors nightmares about losing her child. It’s
what makes us nag and remind and question and stay up in wait for the
headlights in the driveway. We only want to keep them safe. We wrongly imagine it
is within our power. This past weekend that nightmare was a reality for a mom
in my town. I don’t know her, but she has weighed on my heart ever since the
moment I heard that a five-year-old had been struck and killed by a delivery
van.
It was an accident. The van wasn’t driving too fast. The
driver wasn’t doing anything irresponsible. The little boy was probably being a
typical little boy – impulsive, energetic, easily distracted. I imagine he was
happy to be out with his mom on such a day as Saturday. It was a gorgeous, blue
sky, gentle breezes picture perfect day. Not the kind of day to be pierced by something
so tragic.
I heard the sirens. I was puttering in my gardens. I have a
friend who once worked as a surgeon in an emergency room. Days like this were
busy days for her – people are out and active she told me– motorcycle riders
without helmets, kids falling out of tree forts, accidents at picnics and
concerts and fairs and sporting events. I worried when I heard the sirens and
did what I always do – mentally sorted through my own children’s whereabouts.
