My Other
By Cynthia Long
Posted on
Rush hour traffic grinds to a halt at Lake and Bryant. Cold rain pelts the stopped cars, bikers, leashed dogs and one unmoving body heaped in the intersection draped in a purple cape; legs bent unnaturally back, broken eye-glasses inches from still hands, and silver hair bloodied. The purple now yielding to streaks of red. The paramedics’ frantic movements give way to a methodical loading of a dead body.
An elderly man leans against the ever changing stop light facing the accident. Rain floods his weary eyes, soaking his gray braided beard, his lips muttering “my other.”
“You OK? Looks like you’re sliding down the pole.” A tattooed twenty-something with a skate-board tucked under an arm says. “Let’s get you to the bench. There you go.”…
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