Aurora 2021 Mag

Catherine Altimari

The Night My Mom Swept the Street

She held the boy in her arms, told him everything would be okay— just before his breath stopped, and his head dropped slightly over her upper arm— while the left turn signal on his broken motorcycle flashed on and off

near our front lawn. She gave the police her eyewitness account, as blue flashing lights mixed with the red ones,

on the unnecessary ambulance— and the elderly man who hit the boy with his green station wagon, shook his head and walked in circles, saying over and over he just didn’t see him. She got the broom after the tow truck came, and took away the noticeable pieces,

and the coroner arrived, signed the incident report, then carried the boy away— police car following, with no lights flashing. Then she swept the small shards of glass and metal left behind— praying Hail Marys in rhythm of her strokes— as the traffic light in the empty intersection flashed green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red…

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