My scout alerted me to the scene outside my window. Cordons, a large lorry. Policemen, black and white hats, fluorescent jackets. Notepads, cameras. Official hustle and bustle.
A red bicycle.
A large white cloth.
A young life, extinguished. Too early.
Tourists posed by the Bodleian, parading toothy smiles for freeze frame portraits. Online comments tittered about negligence: the city drivers, the city cyclists, the city council. Workers reclined on benches, guzzling down precious morning coffee.
While he still lay there.
Maybe a brother. A son, certainly. Perchance, a lover. A friend, a student … no more.
There was a backpack, its straps cut. A wallet, a mobile phone. A few other pocket items. Simple tatters, now, of a life gone by.
The cordons came off within hours. Nonsensically, life poured back with remarkable ease. The news listing dropped from its lead position, the excited chatter of finishing finalists floated up to my room. People forgot, or never knew.
A devastating reminder of the fragility of life. My deepest sympathies to all those who knew him.
