Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Around the same time as the river "incident"

So you remember this?  A few days later, apparently in the quest to scar our son up in as many ways as possible, we decided to escape the river and drive the car up high, high, high.  To a spot where the only amount of foreseeable water would be teeny creeks running down the mountainside.  And really, those tiny bundles of water wouldn't be much because we had plans on staying in the car.  Just scoping out a possible picnic spot for the weekend.  The entire point of the damn ride was to see if there was still snow, because if that were the case, well.  We would have to figure out someplace else to sit and gorge upon sharp and smoky cheeses, soft yet crunchy breads, crackers with oats all over them, fruit that makes you wipe your chin off immediately, so on and you get the whole idea over here.

We got to the spot, relieved that we could see no snow in front of us, behind us, or to the sides of us.  And now that it was closing in on dinner, we decided it best to head on down.  No touring around on our feet that day.  And... what?  What is that we see?  Perfect.  Two motorcycles.  We can follow them down the Pass, being sure to "ohh" and "ahh" because darnit if Leone isn't drawn to those things as though they were cousins to the roaring river.

We had just really started going when Leone, peering between the front seats for a better view, declared that both riders were wearing their helmets.  "Ohhh, yes, Leone.  Helmets!  So very important to...." And apparently right after that I started swearing (and although I don't recall doing that, I have every reason to believe my tesoro because, damnit.).  Right in front of us, one of the bikers lost control.  He swerved.  He flipped off his bike.  The bike flipped over him.  His body hit the concrete guards on the mountain side.  Dust.  Whirls of dust, brake lights flashing, a body being flung around like a broken puppet.  Things happening that happen when you're going around 50/55 mph down a mountainside.

Leone went silent.  No words.  Nothing.

Tesoro pulled up close, I frantically shouted to the other cyclist that we were going to get help because cell phones didn't work up here, and off we drove until a phone was located and help was called.  By the time we made it back up the Pass, another car had stopped and folks were gently huddled around him.  It took, what, 20 minutes for an ambulance to get there?  Maybe?  Maybe a little less?  Maybe a little more?  And then another 30 minutes before the police officer arrived to grill his friend and my husband and I?  All said and done, maybe right around an hour and a half?  Perhaps two?

All the while, there sat our son in his car seat.  The little boy who doesn't know how to remain still, how to remain quiet, for more than 30 seconds.  But this time?  This time he was quiet.  And when he did speak, he asked what happened.  What happened?  What happened?

The motorcycle fell down baby.  It crashed.  The man is hurt (we had pulled up right alongside him, for the love of God.  Leone's window was open as we watched the man roll around on the Earth in agony, not sure if he was going to live or die).  Sometimes things like this happen.

What happened?  What happened?  What happened?

It's been something like two weeks since we witnessed the accident.  And our boy, our Leone, still asks about it.  Says at random times- a motorcycle crashed.  Sometimes things like this happen.  A motorcycle crashed.

Oh, Leone.  If only we could stop pain and agony and hurt and fear.  If only we could do that for you.  For him.  If only.