I look back at the clock
“How the fuck are we still in traffic”
We had left your brothers about an hour ago
And still had yet made it to the Woodrow Wilson bridge
From there, it is still took another hour to get home.
You shuffled through my phone,
Like you always did,
Looking for the right song
Just to pass the time.
“You remember when Guliana did this?”
You laugh as you imitate her cute baby faces
I still remain grumpy
Still impatient with the traffic
“What the fuck is going on”
I yell in frustration
You look at me, scheming a plan to cheer me up
But evidently you do nothing
Knowing in the end that it would be pointless
Ten minutes pass, without us moving an inch
By this time, I’ve accepted the fact we would be home at 2 am
“Brian, you think one day we would have a child of our own”
“Sure” I reply
You continue on and on on about the type of mother you’d be.
How you would raise her
And what you want to pass on to her,
As your mother had passed on to you.
Excited. Almost clueless to the tragedy I was undergoing called traffic.
I sit silently.
And although I am defeated by the traffic,
I still listen.
I listen and wish I could be that excited right now like you were.
But my concentration is broken by a humming noise that is commenced. It grew louder and louder as it approached us until finally, it flew over us.
It circle around the still night sky, until it finally landed. Maybe a few hundred yards from us.
“An accident” you blurred, simultaneously with my thoughts. And from the looks of it, it must have been bad in order for a helicopter to be called.
We both sit quietly. You in your thought, and I in mine. I more guilty and ashamed. Ashamed I had fussed and bitch about a few minutes in traffic when there was someone fighting for their life right now.
I look at you, as you continue to shuffle through my phone. And I am mesmerized at how beautiful you are. Sweet, and gentle. Free from any flaws. And the idea of having a child with you conceives in my head.
“Maybe our first will be a daughter” I think.
“Yea a daughter, I could help her with her homework … and teach her how to box”.
“Box?” I reevaluate my thought.
“Yea, Box. Why not?” I assure myself.
The helicopter begins propelling its noisy hum and takes off to what I am sure is the hospital. Finally traffic begins to move, but yet I sit silent. The opposite of celebrating as I had envision in my head not too long ago. How could I? When the cause of my celebration is the matter of life or death of another.
I do a silent prayer in my head, focused towards the crash victim and its family, and continue to drive as the traffic starts to pick up.
“So you want a baby?” I ask.
Your eyes widen, and so does your smile.
We both engage on the conversation as I watch through my side mirrors the helicopter fly the opposite direction. It travels further and further until I can no longer see it.
I focus my attention back to you as you continue talking about Guliana and our “maybe one day” baby. Joy overcomes me. At that point I realize that I need to focus on what I have today. And to enjoy the many days I have ahead of me, because you just never know when death will come knocking on the door.