September 19, 2008
By Joseph Pascarella, West Islip, NY

Nothing on the radio but yet still I drive, I hum and whistle; making my own music. The upper half of me is cold, my heat only works for the floor. The top vents blow out the cold air from outside, I shiver and think of where I am driving to.

A broken leg, a broken window, the ice cream cupcakes melting on the counter above. Tupac plays over the radio as they argue. My brother lies on the floor, it is his leg that is broken he tripped and fell into the window, shattering it, our father pushed him. This is the first time it has come to physical pain, but not the first time it has come to emotional scars. How can we forget the man he is? Each time this happens he is forgiven and all is forgotten. But still it happens again and again. I don’t forget.

I turn onto a main highway still humming my own rock songs. I sigh and tell my self ‘live your own life’, I tell myself this because I know no one else will live it for me. I look at my gas gauge, and notice it is almost on empty. I laugh and finally realize how grief is measured: on the amount of gas your willing to use to get away.

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