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Gone
Copyright 2012 Christina M. Guerrero
“Don’t look over there,” my Dad said.
But I looked anyway.
He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t even DO anything else, like discipline me for not obeying. He just stared straight ahead.
We -- he and my Mom and my siblings -- were in our car and waiting for a traffic light to turn green in northeast Los Angeles.
At the time, I was five years old. I had turned to my left, and was looking out the back passenger window.
A boy was on the ground, in the middle of a doorway, flat on his back, his arms stretched awkwardly to his side. A big pool of dark reddish/magenta stuff was around his head.
Through the years I have wondered if this was a scene from a film.
But there were no cameras. No boom operators; no one was standing around holding a microphone. No actors.
A few people were walking around. One person was fairly close to the boy.
My Dad continued driving.
As the car moved, I felt terribly sorry for the boy. I was sure he would not be riding in a car with his family, on his way to do things with other family members, ever again. I wondered if he had a mom and a dad, and brothers and sisters, and if he did, would they miss him? Would he miss them? And he wouldn’t be able to go to Disneyland. That seemed the most disturbing thing to my five-year-old mind.
I felt survivor’s guilt, even at that young age. I would probably be going to Disneyland for the foreseeable future. I also experienced a surprising level of maturity: perhaps I was alive, but there was no guarantee I would live another day, so perhaps I should probably stop feeling so smug. I felt as if I had dodged whatever the boy had dodged, and felt a weird, undeserved, excited feeling.
As my Dad continued to drive, I reflected as well as I could. I was only five, after all. I knew that my life was not perfect. But it was not terrible, either. Nor did it resemble anything the boy must have experienced.
After witnessing that scene, whenever I would feel really happy or overconfident or excited I would think about the boy. I still think of him now.
I have asked my Mom about this. She has no recollection of the incident.
I have never asked my Dad.
Because I know what he will say, and I know the tone of voice he will use. He will sound irritated and a little bit sad and he will say, “Yeah I remember that day. And I told you not to look, didn’t I? But you looked.”
And then he won’t say anything else for a few moments, and then he will change the subject.
I just want that boy to know, and his family, and anyone who knew him, that I think of him often.
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