6/6

I can’t stop.

I hate this day. Every year it’s the same. I pray God would do the one thing I still ask for. All the other prayers are mute. One thing, is that too much to ask?

Let me forget.

June 6, 8:33 PM, I go outside, sit on the neglected, weather-worn porch. Forever faithful, dusk is waiting. I wait. Knowing you won’t be home before your curfew. You hated having a curfew. Twelve years old! You would point this out to me as if I didn’t know; I was there the day you were born. I can’t forget that day. But this day, 6-6, I need to forget. None of your friends had a summertime curfew; that’s what they told you anyway. I said, then you have something they don’t. You didn’t find that as amusing as I did.

Three minutes late; that was all. Three minutes. But it wasn’t the first time, was it? I waited on the porch for you. Then, it wasn’t worn out and canting to the starboard side. We always took care of the things we had. It was just you and me and we didn’t have much. So, we took care. Remember? You never complained about helping around the house or about how little we had. Do you remember what you would say? Someday Daddy, we will have it all…and the moon.

You were supposed to be home at 8:30. I looked at my watch, 8:31. I headed straight for the porch. You don’t know this, there’s no way you could, I was mad at you. We had talked about being responsible earlier that day. Prove that you can do this, I told you, and more will come. I shouldn’t have been so mad. Everything was…it doesn’t matter. Those were grown up problems, not twelve-year-old problems.

I saw you walking. I think you were surprised when you saw me sitting on the porch because you started to walk a little faster. I think you knew you were late and that you were in trouble. You may have even considered big trouble. But you weren’t; it was just old fashioned every day trouble. For a moment, I wanted you to believe it was big trouble. So, I stood up.

That’s when I saw the truck. A white Ford F250, with a broken headlight. He was driving too fast. The lone headlight made me look up at the moon. I don’t know why, I just did. It was bright against the early night sky. All alone up there. No stars had come out yet, it was too early. That moon was beautiful.

I don’t look at the moon anymore.

You were running. I could see the I’m sorry, Daddy smile on your face. You knew that would work; it always did. You didn’t see the truck. You had to hear the throaty broken tail pipe and the radio blaring too loud. It was Creedence, Tombstone Shadow. I hate that song. I tell myself lies and try to believe you didn’t hear the pipes or CCR.

Then the smile was gone. The chrome grill slammed into you. You were gone. I screamed your name. The Ford didn’t stop. He just ran over you like…

I can’t stop.

God, please let me forget.

Someday, Daddy…