no one knows how far i've driven in the dark*

I heard it before I saw it - the roaring of an engine, shattering the quiet Sunday air.

The service was as it was every Sunday and Wednesday - fire and brimstone, force-fed guilt and discreet shame, followed by someone being dunked into a pristine pool of water, supposedly symbolizing the cleansing of sin, but really just resulting in the need of extra towels and perhaps a ruined billfold.

I held her hand, much to the chagrin of the old men and women who loathed any open expression of affection. Feeling the warmth of her flesh pressed against mine, remembering the feel of her body against my own, anticipating the feeling again.

The engine roared - screamed - deafening and beautiful, the way only a street-illegal-bike could.

We walked from our pew in the back of the tiny church, relishing the looks stabbing in our direction. There was bliss in their derisiveness, knowing they hated our love, and loving nonetheless.

It was a perfect day.

The summer sun, hot and giant in the pale blue sky, showered its rays on the vacant street.

We made our way to the door, patiently waiting behind an old woman with blue hair - a sweet old woman who, when alone with us, would tell us how much we reminded her of how she was with her dead husband. In public, though, she would not speak to us, or even look our way - the fallout from the bible-belted community would be far too much for her to take.

Outside, the roar of the engine grew louder, then faint, as the bike crisscrossed the unpaved street in front of the church.

Holding my war-torn bible in one hand, her hand in the other, we said hello to the preacher and his wife. My grandparents were in line behind us, not acknowledging us. Her parents were at home, not partaking in the bi-weekly ritual - her mom too medicated to care, and her dad too drunk to face daylight.

Outside, on the steps, we said our hellos and goodbyes monosyllabically - Hi, How are you? Thanks. Bye. K. Hi. Bye.

Blinded by the sun, I didn't even see him, but I heard him.

It took a few seconds to adjust to the world's light. I saw the dust before I saw him - popping a wheelie, showing off.

He just received his dirt-bike a few months prior, and had become a pro at it, as he was apt to do. J.R.* was always a savant of sorts - given access to anything, he could learn how it worked, and how best to use it in the impressing of open-minded lasses.

His front wheel hung in the air, motionless. The back wheel kicked up a cloud of dirt, as the motor shouted at us, demanding our attention.

A half-smile slapped itself onto my face, involuntary. J.R.* was ever the showman. That's why we loved him - despite him being a few years my minor, he was a major part of my small circle of friends.

The entire congregation watched him go. Some hearts burst with the joy of seeing such happiness let loose upon the earth, others hesitant, and most derisive.

I let go of my love's hand to shake the pastors, as J.R.* reached the intersection.

In such a small town, traffic lights weren't needed, and stop signs were just suggestions most ignored.

J.R.* barreled through the 4-way stop, still on only one wheel, still looking back to make sure we all saw his fantastic antics.

With the pastor's cold hand in my own, I saw it. The flash of light, cold steel glinting in the summer sun.

The roar of his engine died suddenly, the beauty of his freedom replaced by a cold crack - metal on metal.

As a group, we all looked, and vacated our lungs of air, simultaneously.

He, dressed in black shorts and long-sleeve black shirt on his blue bike, his greasy, too long (by the church-goers standards) hair - and the truck - pale green with little clean enough for the sun to cling to - collided in a sickening thud.

I saw him flying, an angel waiting for his wings. The driver of the truck stayed emotionless, both hands on top of the steering wheel, as his rear wheels locked up, billowing black smoke and gray dust.

J.R. flew out of view, hidden behind the abandoned building on the corner. My heart stopped, my hand stuck in the pastor's, cold sweat on cold flesh.

All thought was lost. I heard nothing, though there must have been some shouting and quiet words exchanged.

Crushing metal on youthful flesh silenced the world around it

J.R. flew through the dry air, his eyes wide and aware.




-----



A wreath of flowers marked the spot, along with a cardboard cross.
We walked past the spot daily, despite it being out of our way, asking ourselves - what do you do with pieces of a broken heart?

At school, an meeting was held. Teachers and administrators racked their brains, looking for some meaning in tragedy. An assembly was held, prayers lead.

His friends abstained.

J.R. was not there, not in that dirty, age-cracked building, watching people pretend to pour their hearts out.

No, J.R. was outside, in the summer air, feeling the freedom of a world that wasn't ready for him, a world not good enough for his energy.



















*names and details changed due to broken memory and to protect some semblance of anonymity