It was instinct and adrenaline, a hopeful protector but futile shield:
“Close your eyes, Abby.”
Impotent words, like the reflex a mama uses when brakes are slammed and her arm flings across the front seat of the car.
The big sister in the driver’s seat says it to the one born 18 months after her, before her brain has time to process their perilous and present reality.
She’s lost control of her car and it’s spinningspinningspinning and no one wants to see what happens next.
Before the car landed on the wrong side of the road, bruised in front, battered in back and windshield shattered, I wonder if their young lives flashed behind squinched shut eyes. Did angels embrace them?
I had hugged them goodbye 14 hours earlier.
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