The Ridge Street bus to Nichols Junior High halted abruptly, sending those of us perched on seats sideways to the floor. Windows revealed a Buick stopped in the opposite lane, and a classmate’s legs–clad in white jeans and gym shoes–sticking out from beneath it. The bus driver loitered, unsure how long till the ambulance’s arrival would free him to resume his route, or if he should go now to spare all of us. And I wondered how long till I’d forget witnessing Jeremy Whitsall die. Apparently not ever, since here I am writing this half a century later.
Shoshauna Shy loves how flash fiction and micromemoir cut to the chase, and as a poet, she bounces between all of them. www.PoetryJumpsOfftheShelf.com