Scott Fraser, "Three Way Mirror," c. 2006
The rain glazed a mirror upon which we drove, its silvered runoff rippling in thin sheets across the highway. There should have been few cars, but there was traffic, thickening, slowing, then gradually stopping. “It must be an accident up ahead,” I said. No sirens, no real sound, just an intermittent brushy pulse from the windshield wipers, muted rain. Red lights, brakes tapping on and off through the merging lines, and then wreckage: rat’s nests of torn wires in crushed glass, a dissection of everything that had been whole. Yellow shrouds as we passed. Suffering witnessed by the slow procession of strangers in bits of broken chrome reflecting on those we presumed dead, their families, our finite selves.