On the Subject of Being Struck by a Car
Jono Naito

​My friend relives tragedies. It's been going on since his dad died. I don't participate; I stand at the edge of whichever highway he drags me to, or just beyond the caution tape. He, at first, poses still like the photos, the blurry cellphone memories he sees on the news. He clutches his chest where the shots landed, or lays down, counting streetlights, the last they saw. He screams, sometimes, or plays the sounds of fire and panic from his car. I only step in to explain to strangers No, no it's not happening again. Please don't call the cops. He's mourning.

He always tries to wear the right clothes. Occasionally a backpack at a bus stop, or a plastic police badge. Why no breast pockets, he asked me, Why do the suicides never have breast pockets? It has to mean something. I guessed they didn't want to hold onto anything. He has a collection of license plates from car crashes. I found a pattern, he told me, I figured it out.

Once, after laying naked in the brush for two hours, I forced him home for the first time, told him to get some sleep, Don't stay up all night doing this. Instead he spent three hours going through his dad's old Facebook, showing me every post. I didn't want to care about political quips and outdated memes, but by the end the bits of him and me seemed no different. I believed that I was his father, a forty-two year old blogger, one that was two years away from the brightness of an oncoming drunk driver. My friend placed his hand on my shoulder, and I felt it hit me.

About the Author:
Somewhere in the snowy drumlins of Syracuse University, Jono Naito is excavating his MFA and waiting for sunlight. He is forthcoming in Paper Darts, Beechwood, and Ginosko Literary Journal. You can learn more about him here.

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