The girls and I drove down South Blvd. coming home from a successful experience at a local co-op less than two miles from home.  A helicopter hovered overhead as traffic slowed to a stop just outside the parking lot.  I was nearing an area on the road blocked by several police cars, an ambulance parked perpendicular to the regular flow of traffic and an extraction vehicle.  A well-dressed man stood weeping while a police officer held him upright.  I looked down and beside me a bloody sheet half covered another man.  It covered his face, but his chest and arm lay limp on the road.  His bike was nearby.  I drew in a breath and asked the girls to look up at the helicopter, but it was too late.  Ava asked about the blood and so I told her there had been an accident.

It was one of those moments when you know it could have been anyone.  Erick wants a bike much like the one the man was riding and I wondered whether he had a family.  A half hour earlier, this man had been driving on his way from somewhere, to somewhere and now he was dead.  It seems, even now, as I sit reflecting in the calm of our apartment, looking out at a city bustling with life, impossible that the man beneath the sheet could really be dead.  It seems unfair.  It seems terrifyingly unfair.

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