I hide in the confines of perceived safety. 

“Not me,” I say. 

Most accidents occur at home and  

Statistically 

I should be most afraid of the man I married. 

Because do we ever really know someone? 

I go into my car. Thousands of people take the road 

for the last time, crash and go up in flames. 

A bag of air and strips of fabric across the chest are not enough to save your life. 

I sent my son to school. 

Is today the day another white man with a gun, a grudge, and some loose screws takes it out on our babies? 

For every warm bed, a tent shudders in the cold.  

So I memorize his face 
every morning. 
Just in case. 

I lock the door. 
I buckle the belt. 
I kiss his forehead. 

And pretend it means something.