Since the car-theft-turned-homicide of last weekend, our street has been glittering. It turns out it is not actually anyone's responsibility to clean up the broken glass from car accidents--so you can imagine what a street looks like after it has had a stolen truck crash into a moving vehicle and eight or nine parked cars only to roll over and kill the owner-who-jumped-in-the-bed-to-stop-the-thieves.
Now we can't walk down the street without having to keep pieces of glass from getting in the puppies paws. When we drive it's glitter glitter glitter glittery.
It's one thing to think about someone's car stereo getting stolen when I walk by glass in the street.
It's another to keep remembering that a man from down the street spent the last few minutes of his life in the bed of a wildly speeding pick-up truck that killed him.
This weekend Diana and I are going to sweep up the glass and throw it away. We need to push away the memory, instead of pushing replay in the glassy starlight of the day.