“Dear Crossing Guard Lady” I scribbled on the colorful card, “I hope your hip gets better soon! PS, sorry for ditching you in the middle of the street.”

3 days beforehand it was a wonderful late Winter day, the kind where you’ve been so used to the cold all winter that when it hits the low 40s you strip down to shorts and the lightest t-shirt you can find. Those wonderful brisk mornings are amazing for walking to school with their rustling bare trees and bright sky. What others may call where hell freezes over, I call my Michigan home. There is one problem during these oxymoronic days; our already pot hole infested crack ridden streets get slicker than Elvis’ hair. I didn’t really know it at the time, as I was just a 4th grader having fun sliding on the sidewalk, but those streets are anything but fun to drive on. That day on my friend and mine’s way to school we slipped, slid,  and skated across the sparkling thin veneer of ice atop the concrete. With our easily distracted elementary heads already bored of gliding on the ice, we settled for watching the cars go by as we made our way to the school. The small wobbly paths the cars took from should have clued us into being a little cautious when near the roads, yet such small things are too minute for a small kid to pay attention to. Nearing the crosswalk, the crossing guard stomped towards us and chastised us for sliding on the ice. She uttered something about safety and cracking our heads open if we slipped, which of course my friend and I chose to be deaf towards. After a last exasperated glance at us and a check to make sure none of the cars were moving during their red light, she ushered us to follow her with the big red stop sign we’ve seen thousands of times before. Yet this time was different, as when we were halfway across the street she glanced to her left and saw a car a couple dozen feet away not slowing down as they headed towards the light. They were still far away so she didn’t seem terribly worried at first, just thrusting the stop sign in their direction and continuing to gesture us forwards, but it still didn’t stop. It came closer and closer still not slowing down, and we knew something was very wrong when my friend was pushed forward towards the other side of the road with me and we heard a wet crack. We whirl around to see why the crossing guard had the audacity to shove us when we were just trying to get to school, when we saw her laying on the ground seemingly unconscious with a reddish spot appearing on her clothes near her right hip, as well as the car that was heading towards us parked just a few feet away from her in the middle of the street. Me being me, I stood there in shocked silence while my friend rushed over along with a couple other people nearby to check on her. It wasn’t almost getting hit by a car or my crossing guard actually getting hit by a car that surprised me; it was when the door opened on the assailant’s car and outsteps the frailest, most kind looking grandma you could imagine. After running over the crossing guard and coming frighteningly close to committing vehicular manslaughter, the old lady rushed over to the person she just ran over. She did this in the same way a mom would rush over to their kid when they trip, except instead of tripping they get hit by 2 tons of metal and break their hip.  Several others and her got out of their cars to help the crossing guard. I tried to stay and watch but my friend pulled me to the school to ask for help.

I sealed the sloppy letter full of colored paper and messy 4th grade handwriting in an envelope and put in the mailbox. She must be furious at us for just standing in shock than leaving after she got hit. “I really hope she forgives me after reading this letter,” I thought as I flipped the little red mailbox flag up. “If she doesn’t than the next time I see her is going to be very awkward”