Josephine • • • Mara Shepherd

A Civic and Orange Slices

Ellie Blanchard

Were we listening to Moon River the day the wind blew a tree down in front of the ‘03 Civic? You slammed the brakes, and I realized too late that I didn’t snap the lid back onto my tub of gummy orange slices. It tipped and the carpet is now glittering with sugar crystals. We’re quiet. Maybe because I must be strategically shallow with each breath. I’ll trigger a coughing fit if I speak; oxygen has been touching my lungs in just the wrong way lately. I have bronchitis, in case you forgot. My immune system always falls victim to stress. Every hour of high heart rates over that French exam has a direct correlation with the stickiness of my lungs. Or maybe we’re quiet because a tree just fell in front of your ‘03 Civic. And if we would’ve pulled out of the parking lot after that French exam a couple seconds earlier, well…

Was Moon River playing when the wind blew the tree down? Frank’s version of course. Or was it just the soundtrack my brain chose as our life flashed before my eyes? Only for a second, though. I realize that I trust you. And I can tell that you know it. Your face is frozen. Is this what it feels like? I see you wonder. To have someone depending on your ability to drive through a storm blowing trees down? But I still trust you.

Do you want an orange slice?