Spilt-second

He said goodnight to the driver, and leapt from the bus, fingers clutching his greasy chips. In his haste 
for the savour of salt on his tongue
he ran into the road,
blind to the light
of the car's headlights 
and moving too fast to stop as I shouted a 
         terrified warning. The breaks screeched, but the car 
                            didn't stand a chance of halting.
                                        In my screaming brain
                                                   all motion
                                                       slowed
                                                         down
                                                       before
                                               the dire crack 
                                     of head-on impact.
                             My son;
                    my son was bounced into the air,
             flipped by the nose of the bonnet;
        his chips scattering, cascading.
     I saw him hurtling head first towards the ground
    and my brain raced.
    I saw his head shatter on the tarmac,
      the splash of blood
         and the scarlet puddle that swelled
             around his lifeless self.
               My anguish was too great to contain
               so, from a distance,
              I watched my feeble frame
           crouch beside my child,
        lift his broken head onto my lap,
     hearing keening sobs erupt from within me.
   a siren wailed.
  They took my dead son away.
 as I watched the tail lights recede
a sudden movement clicked me back to reality
his death had been no more
than a vision of the expected future
and he was still falling, but; 
in a split-second miracle
he had contorted in the air,
raising his shoulders and his head,
giving him a safe delivery.

                   He 
               wasn't dead.
       He wasn't dead or even hurt.
  As his incredulous audience marvelled    
I hugged him close,  crying out my relief.
Over and again,  the poor car-driver said                      
“he was right in front of me. I braked but 
 there was nothing I could do!” I uttered 
   words of comfort and agreement, but 
     I knew only time would heal his 
      unfounded shame.  While Paul 
       struggled to free himself 
        from my shaking embrace 
          I clung to him tight,
           hearing a muffled 
            complaint leave 
               those lips:
 
  “I was really longing to eat my chips.”

Written for Writing 101 Poetry – Day 4

This really happened. Paul was thirteen years old, and it was his second close brush with death, but years later,  more were to follow…

©Jane Paterson Basil