I can't believe summer break is here again already, and I'm officially done with middle school.
"Hey, Benny," Mom calls and waves at me from the open car window.
"Hey, Mom," I greet her as I hop into the front seat of her yellow 1969 VW Beetle. I love this car.
"How does it feel to be finished with middle school?" She grins. "I can't believe I have a high schooler next year. I am way too young for that," she teases, and it makes me giggle.
"No different." The smile on my face tells her otherwise. I'm excited for high school. The art classes do way cooler projects. "Do we still get to open up our flower stand this summer at the Farmers’ Market?" I ask. Hopeful.
"We sure do. I just picked up the glass jars today from the antique mall we love. The collection of mismatched glassware is already in the potting shed waiting for you to do your magic."
The radio just tuned into one of my favorite Taylor Swift songs, and Mom and I cheerfully belt out the pop tune about endless summer days. My brain must have been in the clouds, as it does sometimes when I'm daydreaming. My singing was just a bit too loud because I didn't hear the screech of tires on the pavement until it was too late.
My seatbelt bites into my chest as I'm thrown into my side window. A symphony that contrasts with that of our garden back home plays around us. One of grinding metal and shattering glass when we get pinned between the truck that ran the red light and the light post. The world outside, with clear blue skies, is twisted into a chaotic kaleidoscope of colors.
I shake my head to clear the fuzziness, only to be met by sharp shooting pain through my temples. The acrid smell of burnt rubber fills my nostrils.
"Mom? Are…are you okay?" I ask, my voice hoarse and raspy.
I look over, needing her comfort and support. To hold me through this. Except her eyes are closed, and a thick rivulet of blood down her forehead is a stark contrast to her paler-than-usual skin.
A cold, sharp panic blooms in my chest.
The cheerful anticipation of summer break, the freedom and fun we just talked about, feels like a lifetime ago, replaced by the terrifying reality of this crumpled metal shell and the silence from the driver's seat.
The ambulance siren wailed, a mournful counterpoint to my ragged breathing. Paramedics move around, their voices a low murmur of medical jargon that I don't understand. Each touch,each adjustment, sends a fresh wave of throbbing pain through my right arm.
The weight of fear begins pressing down on me.
Suffocating.
The only thing keeping me rooted in the chaos is a warm hand on my shoulder–one of the paramedics. His deep brown eyes speak volumes, although his words are kind and gentle.
"We'll get you to the hospital soon. Hang in there..." he hesitates.
"Ben," I whisper wetly before sniffling, answering his unasked question.
"You're doing great, Ben." He encourages. "Try not to talk and keep your eyes on me."
"What's…name?" I ask between deep breaths that hurt.
"I'm Santos." He tells me, understandingmyquestion this time. Santos talks about everything and nothing. It helps to focus on the soothing tone of his voice. He'd be a great storyteller. I think he's just trying to comfort me, and I need that. It makes me feel warm. Like someone cares.
My eyes leak, wetting my cheeks. Crying in part from the pain, but a larger part is knowing that my Mom is gone. Nobody has told me that. It’s just a feeling.
"Mom," I whisper through more tears as I feel my heart splinter and close my eyes to the once rhythmic beeping in the back of the ambulance to the now rapid sound.
"Ben, stay with me, buddy," Santos orders.
I crack an eye open and look at him. His soft smile warms something inside me again. "There you are. We're pulling into the hospital now, and they'll take good care of you. You're going to be okay." He reassures me.
And something that feels like peace overcomes me.
The small, mismatched jars that had held such joy now sit empty on a dusty shelf in the basement, gathering cobwebs like her memory.
They say there are stages of grief. For the past couple of years, I've watched it play out. Dad's grief went from denial to anger pretty quickly. During his venomous rage, not only did he take it out on me, he took it out on Mom–what was left of her. The garden, once a sanctuary of shared laughter and gentle lessons, became a forbidden zone, a painful echo of what was lost.
The shed was torn down and the wood burned.
