“Mom! Mom, we’re going to be late!”
Beautiful, long, black hair chases Maria down the hallway, her ballet slippers barely on as she flies straight into the kitchen. Her mother wipes her eyes, apologizes and stands to put on her coat.
“Mom, are you alright?”
Maria gets a “Fine, honey,” and a hug. Her mother holds her to her chest, their hearts practically touching.
“Daddy’s not going to be able to make it to the recital, hon.”
“That’s fine! Let’s just goooo we’re going to be late!”
The front door is locked, seatbelts buckled, the car is started.
A red light.
Maria counts in her head, waiting for the light to turn green.
Her mother’s body flies through the windshield.
The car barrel rolls, trailing into a street light.
Maria blinks, and is enveloped in white.
Her arms are bound to her chest and stomach by a beige jacket.
“Time for your shot, again, Maria.”