The two-toned Olds swinging sideways out of

    the drive， the bone-white gravel kicked up in

    a shot， my mother in the deathseat half

    out the door， the door half shut——she's being

    pushed or wants to jump， I don't remember.

    The Olds is two kinds of green， hand-painted，

    and blows black smoke like a coal-oil fire. I'm

    stunned and feel a wind， like a machine， pass

    through me， through my heart and mouth； I'm standing

    in a field not fifty feet away， the

    wheel of the wind closing the distance.

    Then suddenly the car stops and my mother

    falls with nothing， nothing to break the fall . . .

    One of those moments we give too much to，

    like the moment of acknowledgment of

    betrayal， when the one who's faithless has

    nothing more to say and the silence is

    terrifying since you must choose between

    one or the other emptiness. I know

    my mother's face was covered black with blood

    and that when she rose she too said nothing.

    Language is a darkness pulled out of us.

    But I screamed that day she was almost killed，

    whether I wept or ran or threw a stone，

    or stood stone-still， choosing at last between

    parents， one of whom was driving away.