So I sat still.
She walked to the back of the Buick in her flowered Sunday dress and her good white sandals, and she stood there on the gravel. He walked back to his patrol truck, climbed in, and shut the door. The engine was running. The windows were up. I could see the little shimmer of cold air fogging the bottom of his windshield.
And that is where he left her.
I watched it all in the side mirror.
I want to tell you I did something. I did not. I sat in that car and watched my mother stand on the gravel in the full sun with her handbag hooked on her arm like she was waiting for a bus, and I watched a boy sit in air conditioning behind tinted glass, typing on a laptop.
