Little Man

 

Some people remember traumatic experiences exactly as they happen. I wish I did. I wracked my mind for the entire event, wondering what I did wrong or could have done differently. Those few seconds that meant everything.

*****

            "I can take the trash, Mama." His little seven year old voice was full of conviction. I smiled at him understandably, agreeably.

            "Okay son." I told him. "I'll help you. There are two bags." I grabbed one and he seemed almost put out as he looked at me exasperated, and took the other.

            "Aw Mom." He sighed and down the stairs we went, me and my little man.

 

            The air was thick and humid that night and he sang some unrecognizable song as we walked together. As soon as we cleared the stairs, he took off from me, asserting his independence, still singing his song in his off-key voice. With my free hand I swiped at the nagging perspiration that the humidity brought. An old red Nissan Pathfinder flew around the corner, blaring Christian rock music. I rolled my eyes and started to call out to my son, but the Pathfinder looked as if it were heading to a parking spot.

            "Son." I called anyway, but he didn't hear. Adam was still singing, he was smiling now and that made me smile. He was crossing the street to the dumpster when I heard the Christian music again and the speeding truck. My head flew around again, and I dropped the trash bag and ran for my singing son.

            "ADAM!" I called him and he knew that voice. That was the voice that meant to stop everything and come. Come to Mommy. I'd used the voice too late.

            I didn't remember hearing the screeching halt of the truck or the crunch.  I'd been running at full speed and when I got to him, he lay still, his eyes staring straight up. 

            "Oh God, Adam, Mommy's here, baby. Mommy's here." I slid to him and gingerly put his head in my lap. 

            "Mommy?" He couldn't see me. I wanted to make sure he could feel me. I touched his head gently. My little man. 

 

As he lay there, dying in my arms and the hysterical driver dialed 911, I could only remember the sticky heat, and how small he looked. The Christian rock music blared on, only drowned out by the sounds of the sirens. He blinked again and with a smile, closed his eyes for good.

Reviews

[Winter McPherson]

What a sad, little story. I could've read more and more of it. Well written piece!

[Jessica Elaine Stevens ..]

What I loved about this the most was the opening. it's so honest and true- people always write these sorts of things with the kind of beginning like "I remember every detail", which gives the author permission to be as descriptive and verbose as they want to be. But your beginning is much more true to life. In the face of trauma, even in the best of times, our memories are selective, treacherous and deceitful. At best we remember snippets, small tiny moments that we then stitch together with common sense and reason to make a full picture. You pulled out all the right moments for this piece, and it hits you as hard as a fast moving car. Very well done.

[Charles D. Moorer]

Perfect, absolutely perfect. You have captured this in a way that brings the drama and tension directly to the reader and pulls him/her right in there with the grieving mother. Excellent!!!

[Constance L. Hartwell]

Is this a nonfiction story? I loved the entire piece but the last two lines really got to me. Excellent job.

[DC Gentleman]

Life is so very precious.. my heart races at the thought of this actually happening.. I pray we can find solace in our loved ones goin to another place..

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

That is quite tragic but it certainly shows how life can change in the blink of an eye and why we must cherish every moment with our loved ones.