the accident

ahead of us,
there was a horse in the road.
still alive.
his legs
moving, in an attempt to get up.
the cart
he pulled was turned over,
all its belongings were spread
in front of us.
blocks of ice. eggs, metal
cans of milk.
the car that hit them
was off the road, the driver
bleeding, holding his head,
the windshield
broken.
the police arrived and brought
the man to my
father's car, where they
placed him in the back seat.
el hospital, he said, over and
over again until my father agreed.
my brother and I climbed into
the front seat, while my
father drove.
the blood was everywhere.
we looked back at the man as
he closed eyes and crossed
himself, holding his head.
murmuring in his language.
his heavy breathing finally stopped
before we reached the hospital
on the outskirts of Barcelona.
whether he died, or lived,
we never knew.
all afternoon, my father quietly
washed out the car,
saying nothing about the accident,
until yesterday, fifty five
years later.