There are not many people who don’t know that I have an obsession with radio. I love listening to the witty banter of the morning show hosts, as they talk about the hot topics of the day with a local flare. On my morning commute to work I often find my mind engulfed in everything they have to say, and I’m mesmerized by the personal sagas of the guests they interview.
This morning while stopped at a red light on my way to work I was enjoying my morning ritual when a light blue Cadillac hearse crossed the intersection in front of me. There was nothing remarkable about the series of events that led the car to be in my path, but suddenly, I wasn’t in my car anymore, I was sitting in the back seat of the hearse. I was wearing a thick black cotton maternity/nursing dress that had gone slightly knobby from wear, and it was a little loose on my 4 day post partum body. And on the seat next to me was a small white box. My arm clutched around it. It was holding the dead body of my daughter. The last time I would ever hold her close. In a small white box, in the middle of the back seat of a pale blue hearse. Wearing a knobby black cotton dress. And my throat burned. And my eyes ached. And I could feel the texture of the box as I dug my fingernails in and held on like my life was in that box, because it was.
And then I blinked and my light turned green, the local hosts threw to their roving traffic reporter and I cleared my throat and kept on driving to work.