Did you see that lady in the silver-gray Mitsubishi? The car that was 100 feet past the traffic light? All busted to smithereens? On it’s side? The one with two wheels knocked off and the hood just dangling by one hinge? I wonder how many times it rolled over.
And the street! Glass and parts and fuel and junk from three vehicles all over the place. And blood, too.
And who was that Asian lady? The lady holding that child. How did they get into the mix? Her Toyota was askew up on the curb, but I couldn’t see any damage. Must have been some, though.
Did you see the EMTs take that lady out of her Mitsubishi and quickly slip her into that long bag?
What about that cement truck with it’s heavy hopper still grinding around and around? It had hardly a dent in it anywhere, except in its big front bumper. That husky driver—poor guy—just sitting there in the street, leaning back against the front tires, crying like a baby. Crying like a baby.
There is no message on earth—in this life—that is so important that it must be texted while driving.
Tell your kids.