Death on a Monday

When I get home from practice, I like to watch people getting ready for the day. Buzzers announce the arrival of carpool or taxi service for the upstairs apartment. If I’m in the shower, I can hear her say, “I’ll be right down.” A couple outside brushes the snow off their car. The girl uses a snow scraper and the guy uses his gloved hand on the windows, then goes back to get the taillight. But they aren’t a couple. They are just carpool buddies with the potential of a little romantic tension here and there. Maybe one day he’ll get up the courage to ask her out for dinner after work. She drives. If they had left about ten minutes earlier, they wouldn’t have had to brush anything off. I wonder if they will die today. Impending death would make brushing the snow off the car in the morning more meaningful because it would be the last time. Would it have made a difference if they had left ten minutes before? I think about death more than normal people. The train crossing lights were flashing on the way to practice, but after stopping, I drove over them like the other cars did. There was no train. Same thing happened on the way back. Rush hour traffic was forced over a railroad crossing with flashing lights and sounds, but no train. I wondered who I should call about this. If and when the train does finally come, someone could die. Maybe the girl and guy in the blue Jetta. They will approach the tracks, sipping their coffee and listening to NPR because they are young professionals now. They will say to each other, “This is strange,” upon seeing the lights flashing, and will start to cross anyway like the other cars. The car will not accelerate as quickly as she thought it would because of the slush on the roads, and then the train will come. Two hours later than the flashing lights indicated. The blue Jetta will not return to the spot across the parking lot from mine. And the snow will continue.