I was riding my bike past the church this morning 

Cycling is a great way of touring

The neighborhood

On a pretty Sunday morning in spring, the sights and smells are good 

I was praying but no one would know it

Thinking of what it means to really love people – and how to show it

A paradox I might never fully understand 

I decided to cross over into the church’s land – the giant parking lot 

I turned to where the entrance meets the off ramp from the main road

I reckon now my reflective lights didn’t glow

I felt the bike frame shatter and my ribs explode

For a second I thought of my husband 

Was my bike riding escapade selfish?

I saw the driver of the car stumblin’

Then he headed for the church

Ah, how my ribs hurt!

I caught a glimpse of him – he was my neighbor 

Dangling out of his back pack were some jumper cables 

The ones my husband had lent him 

The smell of the paper bushes and roses was overtaken by that of alcohol 

I figured that man never saw me fall

The parking patrol of the church went on as usual

I died in that parking lot 

And ironically enough, it’s where my family had my funeral

Though none of them attended that church 

Within my casket I felt like a stranger

My spirit lurched 

It seemed my husband forgot

Or did he love?

I watched from above as he once again helped that neighbor