The Intersection

Photo by Richard Melick on Unsplash

The Intersection

Green light says I can turn right.

But peds are in the crosswalk.

I’m mildly annoyed.

But I stay stopped.

Obviously.

A mom pushing a baby carriage moseys

across the red-brick pedestrian path.

Flashing red hands with a countdown

silently say she probably shouldn’t.

But she is.

Counting on me not moving.

I’m not.

A massive white pickup enters my left line of sight.

Coming from the opposite direction.

Turning to its left toward the crosswalk.

Toward the woman and her pram.

I can’t see the driver.

It’s set to intersect with mom and baby.

I can see the path on an imagined graph:

a bright-white heat-seeking missile

heading dead

for a passenger plane.

Two moving points about to collide.

Half seconds like minutes.

Can’t think.

Only watch.

The white truck passes across my vision.

Dominating.

And near-misses Mrs. Pedestrian and Child by inches.

Rolling on like it wasn’t about to plow down

a mid-street young mom and baby

like bowling pins.

I see the mom’s face as the truck exits the scene.

Her life—and her child’s—just flashed before her eyes.

She stares after the truck in shock and anger.

Finishes crossing the street.

We might’ve met eyes.

She might’ve been wearing earbuds.

She’ll be thinking about it all day.

Maybe all week.

Might have a nightmare or two.

I realize I’m holding my breath.

I release it.

Red Skelton’s “Pedestrian Polo” sketch comes to mind.

It’s not funny anymore.

I ease off the brake.

Slowly turn right.

Leave the intersection behind.

And wonder:

How many people’s inattention

or lack of care

will change or end

their lives or another’s in a

single

irrevocable

finger-snap

instant?

…and did I just see God’s invisible hand?