Tue, September 15, 1998 - 1:18 a.m.
Today (tonight?) just around midnight, I found myself
at the Eberwhite
I found out that it's pointless to stand there
in the semi-darkness calling your kid's name when she's
been * in an automobile accident.
She won't answer.
She won't come.
She won't put down the ball, tell her buddies goodbye,
and run over the car.
She won't grumble and ask for 'five more minutes'.
She won't complain that it isn't fair that she has to
stop playing with her friends to go pick up her
pesky little sister.
She won't ask you to walk back into the school building
with her to get her backpack or let her make a quick
trip to the toilet.
She won't jump up and throw her arms around your neck,
wrap her legs around your waist and yell "daddy!"
She won't say "I know you're going to say no, but can
we go play at Fumika's house as soon as we get home?"
She won't jump into the front seat and say "Dad, guess
what we did today!" or "Dad, guess what Julia (or Marie
or Calyn) and I did today" or even "Dad, what does it mean
when you 'give someone the finger'?"
None of the above will happen.
You'll just stand there feeling just a little too cold,
with the light from the building shining
just a little too bright,
and you'll feel just a little too stupid and
over-dramatic and self-indulgent for standing
out there with tears and snot
dripping down your face
calling the name
of a child
who you know is