A Weak Windshield.

The news was tragic.

The crash was more than she could take.

Her heart shattered like the windshield, suddenly and violently.

It had been raining.

The kids were dead.

Her kids were dead.

Both of them.

Gone.

She couldn’t take it.

The police told her to spend the night with family, not to stay home alone.

She slammed the door.

She walked upstairs and remembered the time Jenny tripped over the third step’s carpet bump, managing somehow to break her leg.

She was the most coordinated person she knew.

As she passed through the hallway she glanced in Jimmy’s room.

It felt like someone was choking her.

It was messy in there.

The bathroom floor was littered with too many outfits, Jenny couldn’t decide this morning.

Jimmy left the toilet seat up.

She reached into the medicine cabinet and saw Jimmy’s first razor, he insisted on getting it once his first chin hair popped up.

She moved it aside and found the pill bottle.

Once Jenny took two thinking they would ‘get her high’. She slept 15 hours straight that day.

Soon she would be sleeping too.

Soon she would be with them again, to tuft Jimmy’s hair and scold him about the damn toilet seat, to keep a watchful eye on Jenny during these trying teenage years.

She swallowed as many as she could, the choking feeling real this time, physically real.

The lights were flickering in her brain, and sleep settled in as suddenly and violently as the windshield.

D.R Breshears 

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