There was a blank calendar in my hospital room, just read November—

no dates, empty square boxes, in rows and columns, waiting

to be filled with appointments and surgeries, x-rays and

blood draws.  The list of medications, and the hours to take them.

On November 22, twelve days after I was hit,

all my surgeries done, I was moved to Knapp rehab. 

The Minneapolis Police posted images of the man who

Hit me.  Blurry and gray, the license plate impossible to read.

I shouldn’t have read the comments on the post. One man

who drives a truck for a living, wrote “Speedbump, Is that you?”

I combed my hair and washed my face.  In my wheelchair,

wheeled to PT. Got in a car.  Got out of a car. (This isn’t lost on me.)

Got in a bed.  Laid down, got out of bed, with a little help

From Casey.  Casey, my PT, who talked me through everything.

I stood up by the parallel bars.  Picked up a shoe and handed

It to Casey. He said thank you. I said you’re welcome.

I am learning to live again, in this body. In this body cracked and

broken in too many places. A brace armors me, from hipbone

to collarbone. The stitches at my shoulder, sixteenth

of them, a visual reminder of the force with which he hit me

And the distance my body flew through the air,

the broken heap I became on the road.

How did he hit me with his car

How did he watch my body fly  

And crumble, knowing he can’t undo this.

Knowing he could have prevented this.

I wasn’t in his blind spot.  I was directly in front of him.

He wasn’t looking.  As he made a left-turn.         
      

As he was driving.  A car. A big black car. That he drove away

after hitting me. I know I am lucky that he didn’t kill me or break

my spine, that I didn’t hit my head.  That I only

broke and fractured bones—seven of them.


My partner says, after seeing the photographs

the police posted, “Looks like they use the same cameras

as the people who spot Sasquatch”.  We know the driver exists

But we may never find him—which makes him part monster

something lacking the humanity to care for another human being.

I have somebody else’s blood in me, somebody else’s bone.

How do I thank them, for what they’ve given me;

The strength to go on, a chance to someday walk again.

jks, January 2025