MEMORIES OF LIFE

by Ben White 

Kuroda lost his sister in a car crash outside of their Tokyo prep school yesterday. Her uniform, her clean pressed white shirt, was smudged with grease from the car and dirt from the street, scratched and torn. Rain continued to fall hard, rivulets weaving across the concrete, pooling around the crowd and the young girl. Her body was soaked as he watched the ambulance take her to the morgue, dripping like the pieces of paper that had fallen out of her leather bag, which he gathered.
     He stood unmoving in the rain as the traffic began again, the leather bag unclasped and open over his shoulder in the intersection. Soon the cars began to swerve out of the way as they crossed, but none blew their horns because the boy appeared purposeful in his silent vigil. Minutes passed, and the evidence of the crash, the traffic jam, all of it went away -- except Kuroda -- and the cars began to get impatient with the boy, who was sopping wet and holding two school bags over one shoulder.     NEXT