Mar 26, 2015 13:04
The officer's shoes were black and shiny and unscuffed.
I wondered if he wore them in to work or if he walked barefoot inside,
carrying his shiny black leather shoes until he got to his desk.
He was a big black man - huge.
His voice was quiet but he spoke with a steady gait -
"Ca-ra E-Laine Da-vis" - "Cha-nning tex-as".
Deliberate, neutral.
He kept his eyes on a sheet of paper.
Everyone knew what he was saying.
I had some hope -
I thought "maybe they brought us here for me.
They know what I've been up to.
They have proof. Please let them have proof."
I don't remember everything he said.
"Cara". "Did not survive." And after that she was "the body".
"The body was transported..". He didn't use her name again.
Then she was "the remains".
I called my brother
and leaned against the windowsill and tried to think
of the best tone of voice to tell him that she was gone.
In the parking lot, we were alone again;
we had to drive home.
My mother looked into the sky,
her eyes fixed on a distant nothing.
"Just give me a do-over. Just one do over. Just let me do it again."
The officer’s shoes were black and shiny and unscuffed
as he walked to his car. He didn’t look at us
as he left. He didn’t look back as he drove away.
He didn’t pause long at the stop sign.
His car sped up, shrinking until it disappeared into the road.