Each year William waits until his old weary eyes fill blur and are blinded. Only then does he leave the small playground on the corner of Springfield Avenue return to his car where he turns on his windshield wipers to clear away the snow or slush or rain that fell as he sat on the wooden bench staring at the bronze memorial or the children or at the cigarette butts or just into the never-ending gray of the winter sky.

Twenty-one years ago on a freezing February morning in 1992 nine-year-old Andrew William’s little boy had stepped off the sidewalk straight into the path of an oncoming car. Andrew was bewitched by snowflakes — he had stuck out his tongue to see if they tasted of honey and dew. William had pictured the scene so many times — the driver leaning over the steering wheel squinting at the little boy in the navy trench coat. How he’d frozen hands on the wheels terror paralyzing his legs. How at the very last minute he’d slammed on the brakes. Swerved. But the icy road had thrust him forward there was no grip though he pumped the brake up and down up and down G-d what was wrong with the brakes up down stop stop

Noooooo—

A little boy lay on the frozen road lifeless.

There wasn’t any blood just a perfect cold body.