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What the? …

Some car parts peek out of this bag. Dumping the bag out only to pick up however many pieces of plastic there are would be like moving sand from one pile to another. The bag will go straight to the recycle bin.

Some car parts peek out of this bag. Dumping the contents out only to pick up however many pieces of plastic there are would be like moving sand from one pile to another. The bag will go straight to the recycle bin.

Two vehicles done put a good whoop ass on each other at the intersection of Sharon View and Colony Roads. Somebody was in a hurry; the other driver, not so much.

An otherwise peaceful Saturday stroll was lengthened by 15 minutes while I scooped up various pieces of front or rear ends. I couldn’t tell which. Well, that’s not entirely true. I tossed aside the rod that held up the hood of one of involved vehicles. One thing is known, the front of one car and the rear of the other don’t look like they did moments before their unfortunate run in. There were hundreds of pieces of plastic scattered in the roadway, and my foot served as an impromptu broom in the early a.m. darkness to sweep the mangled bits and pieces together.

One can only wonder what goes through the mind of a driver (‘What the?…‘) in the moments before their car will unavoidably smack another vehicle. I don’t mean a life-threatening full speed collision, but the type that’s going to mess up both cars pretty damn good and leave the drivers unscathed.

The fall line of the accident scene would eventually migrate the shards to a storm drain about 10 yards away. From there the debris would find McMullen Creek. It was worth it to spend a little while kicking the former car parts into manageable piles.

The initial thought was ‘This would make a great photo‘ but I’ve since backed away from that. To dump the bag out on the driveway would mean picking it all up all over again. I’ll pluck out the non plastic junk and leave in the bag the chunks of two cars that wish they’d never met.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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