I Hope You Are Okay

There is a mangled motorcycle standing on the sidewalk a block from my apartment.

It has been moved three times. Once: dragged on its side through a crosswalk at an intersection. Once: stood up on the sidewalk. Then: moved 10 meters from the corner to where it sits now.

I was working from home when I heard a short, sharp crash. Many sounds are mistaken for a car crash. But the sound of a car crash is unmistakable.

I went to my balcony and saw a motorcycle below, in the crosswalk, plastic fragments scattered in the road. A few tens of meters away a taxi was stopped. Next to the motorcycle was a large, black shape – a human, formed into a pile.

People on the street gathered around. Redirecting traffic. Waiting for help.

10 minutes. No movement.

A fire truck arrived. Then an ambulance.

The rider was moved to the ambulance. The ambulance backed up, and then sped away.

A bombero with a hose sprayed the ground where the person had been. The light red of water and blood diffused into the air and washed off the street.

Carabineros closed the streets leading to the intersection. They walked up and down. Taking notes. Looking. Reporting.

A few hours later, the street was empty. Except for the mangled motorcycle on the sidewalk.

I hope you are okay.