Boston 100 Word Story

 The Crossing

Route 9 on my way toward Northeastern. Sometimes it's a benign trip--paperwork. Trains, cars, ambulances jostle near Beth Israel. I accelerate past the Mission Bar. Or a red light halts me, a blessing. I see my Dad. I had stolen a wheelchair. Have you hefted a wheelchair across T-tracks through a deadly intersection with your father in your palms? He sipped water. I nursed iced-tea. After the diagnosis, he returned to Kansas with a fatal disease. Now I idle in my car; I can smile at our audacity. I can tell the story. The stark terror of his crossing.