Where were you when my brother was lying
on the cold street that dewy June morning?
I was asleep on my futon,
Saturday morning headlines playing on the hazy
TV on low volume.
I was peacefully dreaming of random eleven
year old girl randomness.
My random dreams were interrupted when
my mother ran into the room,
shook me,
shook the dreams away,
shook me awake.
I woke up dazed, foggy,
the bright light from the overhead fan burned
my blurred vision.
“We need to go to the hospital. Brendan’s been in an
accident.”
Now I was even more confused. My brother was asleep
in bed.
Was he not?
I said nothing,
got up,
got dressed,
got ready,
got my bag,
got in the car.
It was silent.
We arrived to the hospital in seventeen minutes.
Seventeen minutes of not knowing what
happened.
Not knowing if he was okay.
Seventeen minutes of agony, no where close
To the agony I’d soon find my brother in.
Entering the hospital felt odd.
Everyone in here was here for a reason.
Happy.
Sad.
Stupid.
But I was here because my brother was
run over by a car.
Thinking of what he looked like when I walked in is still difficult.
Shaking.
Crying.
Bleeding.
He had tire tracks on his legs.
He had a bloody stab wound from the metal kickstand on his bike.
He had tear tracks down his face, and a shaky voice from shock.
I was shocked.

Where were you when my brother was run over?
Because I was peacefully sleeping
while he was being shot up with morphine
to dull the pain.
Where were you?
Because I
sure as hell
know where the woman who did the damage was.