I can see you, sparkling eyes and pouty lips, against the ambient night as the car moves forward and we sit still--both passengers in an evening I'm glad is over. So it's hard to see you sitting there, suddenly catapulted forward through the windshield and onto the pavement as other cars pass you by. It's difficult to picture them ripping you open and drilling a hole in your head to drain the excess blood so that you can live. When I close my eyes and see you lying there hooked up to government machines, I want to rip myself open and smother your pain with my guts and heal your wounds with my tears. You are in my prayers, sweet girl.