giving thanks

On Tuesday, my dad and step-mom braved the torrential rains and drove up to Boston to spend the holiday with us. Before they arrived, I pulled on a jacket, leashed up on the dog, and in the 6:00 darkness walked the four blocks to the fresh-pasta store, crossing Broadway en route.

I spent a few minutes deciding what to get, then watched the guy behind the counter feed the wide, fresh noodles through the pasta machine. He sprinkled the spaghetti with flour, wrapped it in white paper, and sent me on my way. Within a block of my house, I reached Broadway. From the intersection, I could see the lights I'd left on in the living room, and I imagined the cat curled up on the couch, just where I'd left her. I imagined my parents, still driving in our direction, and my husband, hopefully heading home from work, and how we'd all wind up around hot plates of my step-mom's homemade gravy at the dinner table. The first of several good eats we'd share.

Broadway is long and wide and can feel more like a highway than a neighborhood road. Despite the crosswalks, it is always a dangerous crossing. So much so that Burton, a while back, sent an e-mail to our then-new mayor, complaining about the speeds and the dangers and asking him to do something. But other than a personal response, nothing happened.

At the crosswalk, I looked to the left. I looked to the right. No cars coming from either direction. In fact, two blocks to the right, three or four cars were stopped in the middle of the road, blocking anyone who might want to pass. In the headlights, I could see their doors were open. People were yelling. There was no traffic backup, no police officers, no flashing lights. It looked like a small accident or argument. I crossed and headed home to get ready for dinner.

The following night, Burton came home from work and told me that a 22-year-old Tufts student from Bulgaria had been hit by two cars as she attempted to cross Broadway a little after 6:00 the night before. She was declared dead an hour later.

The headlights and yelling. A young student. Her friends, or whomever she might have been going to visit when she didn't show up. Her family, far away. My family, in the next room. With our health and our lives and our hearts intact, none of it taken for granted.