I didn’t want to pronounce you dead. Nineteen years old and five months pregnant.
Didn’t want the car to crash into a telephone pole after the five of you drank beer and drove down Main Street at 170 kilometers per hour.
Didn’t believe you were wearing seatbelts the way you told me you were. Didn’t understand how two of you could be thrown fifteen feet from the Impala if you were. Didn’t believe you’d only had a sip or two of beer like you said. You said you were scared and asked the driver to slow down. Now the fear will never leave you, and that saddens me. I offer you my sympathy, I wish I could offer you my empathy.
Didn’t need to read more than the headline in the paper today to understand what had happened. Already knew the driver got off without a scratch and refused to give a blood sample. Saw the guy in the back seat who broke his pelvis in six places.
Habet natura ut aliarum omnium rerum sic vivendi modum; senectus autem peractio aetatis est tanquam fabulae. Cujus defatigationem fugere debemus. Rest in peace. Please don’t drink and drive.