The scene played in his head over and over, invading his dreams and his waking thoughts. It was always a blur, always in slow motion. The details he wanted, needed to remember were only vague impressions. And every time it was the same. There was nothing he could do. They were walking down Slauson, back to their small apartment after working out at the local gym. They were arguing about whether or not they were going to be able to afford the gym dues for the next year. After all, little Byron was going to be in kindergarten soon. He had just stopped on the sidewalk, and was waving his arms in frustration when the lowered Buick turned onto Slauson and began to speed up. She kept on walking, arms folded tightly against her chest. He saw the young Mexican boy, couldn't have even been in high school yet, lean out of the copper colored car, an Uzi clenched tightly in his hands. He saw the Mexican family behind them dive to the ground and heard them scream. But she didn't see it. The bullets tore into her chest, exploding in a red spray out her back. All he could remember after that was him crying as he watched the glow of life in her eyes fade into nothing...

Waking up was the hardest part. He had grown accustomed to having someone on the other side of the bed, her slender leg poking out of the covers, even on the coldest mornings. The coffee would usually wake them on the weekends, a pleasant change from the shrill alarm that commanded they rise and go to their jobs during the week. Sometimes, for as long as an hour, they would just lie there, and he would hold her in his strong arms and they would say nothing, just listen to Byron's high-pitched screams of laughter as he watched the Saturday morning cartoons. Usually by the time Byron was pretending to be the Green Power Ranger, threatening to karate chop the furniture, they would throw off the covers and pull on some sweats. She would insist they have breakfast together, even if it was only Corn Flakes. She even managed to somehow get Byron away from the television so he could join them. And so they would sit, and they would plan out the chores for the day. Byron would help her pull weeds, he would mow the lawn and saw off that tree limb they both thought might be diseased. Usually he managed to get a college football game in, taking an extended lunch. She would come in with that glaring smirk that she had, and sarcastically ask him how she could have married someone so lazy. He would just smile, shrug his shoulders, and that was enough.

Even now, he would go to sleep on the right side of the bed and he would stay there throughout the night, unconsciously refusing to take advantage of the open bed. It wasn't as if he still got much sleep, three months after the stray bullet had slammed into her, taking her from him, from their son.

Now the movies sat in the oak cabinet, gradually collecting dust. On the shelf above the tapes, and below the small book collection that took up the top shelf, were a number of framed pictures. Their wedding photograph, him looking dapper and bit nervous in his double-breasted tuxedo, and her, looking radiant, her deep brown hair a stunning contrast to the pure white of her simple wedding dress. Byron on his fifth birthday, party hat on his blonde head, a piece of cake hanging from his smiling mouth. The pictures had begun to gather dust too.

"Damn it Harold. I know it must be hell to lose your wife, but if you continue to fuck up these analysis reports, you're gonna lose your job too."

He just sat in his back-support chair, staring at the computer terminal in front of him. Jerry Ross, his boss, stood above him, trying to tower and look serious, but his height of just over five feet betrayed him, as did the sympathetic look in his eyes.

"Look, I'm sorry Harry. I know you're trying. Hell, if I lost Janice, I'm not even sure I would be able to get up in the morning. I sympathize with you. But you have little Byron to support now. You have got to get your work back up to par here, or I won't be able to protect you much longer. Come on Harold. Please."

The black-bound report Jerry had been holding was flipped onto Harold's desk, almost skittering off it. He looked up from the computer terminal and up at Jerry.

"Thanks Jerry. I know...I'll try."

"I know you will Harold."

Jerry turned and left the small office, leaving Harold to stare at the computer screen. Soon, little kittens appeared on the screen, playing around and chasing a single butterfly. Byron still giggled every time he saw this screen saver on the computer at home. But Harold just stared at them, seeing only her eyes as she died on the pavement in a pool of her own blood.

Bally's had tried several times to get him to come back to the gym and renew his membership. They always asked if Mrs. Stevenson would also like to renew her membership also. They had a new aerobics instructor and four new stair masters. Wouldn't she like to try them out? But he always said that they weren't sure, that times were tough in this recession and they just weren't sure right now. They used to love going to the gym together. They enjoyed pushing each other's limits. He always tried to get just one more minute out of her on the stair master or exercise bike, she was always pushing him to get those weights up one more time, to add on another 5 pounds to the bar. They would go home, still sticky and sweaty, and shower together, cleaning the sweat and grime off each other. Playfully they would twist their towels and snap each other with them, and so they would fall into bed tired and laughing.

Byron now had the duty of waking his father on the weekends. He usually came in during Bugs Bunny, usually during the commercials so he wouldn't have to miss a single "What's up, Doc?" On this particular Saturday morning he found his father already awake.

"Come on daddy. Time for bekfast!"

"I can't remember what color her eyes where Byron. What color were Mommy's eyes?"

"Blue!" Byron said triumphantly.

"Were they really? I can't, I just can't remember anymore."

Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.

"Come here Byron. Give your daddy a big hug."

For long moments he held the small child in his arms as if he was a life preserver. Long moments passed and the tears began to flow freely before his son wiggled and squirmed and dashed back to the living room and the Saturday morning cartoons.

Yard work was put off that Saturday morning, as it had been every Saturday since she was murdered. Byron didn't want to be separated from the television, but his father was insistent. So they put on their Sunday church clothes, long left hanging in their closets, and drove to the cemetery.

There was no traffic on the 605 Freeway, strange even for a Saturday morning. He turned off at Whittier and drove up the hill towards the old cemetery.

It was a cool, crisp fall morning, the smells and colors vibrantly reminding Harold of the season. Slowly he pulled the Ford station wagon around and into the small road that led to where she lay.

The car came to a slow stop and Byron jumped out, running with the energy of youth to where he knew his mother was sleeping. Harold followed his son, walking with slow measured strides. He came to a halt before one of the few standing gravestones in the whole cemetery. Elizabeth Joyce Stevenson. Beloved wife and mother. 1965-1993. She will be missed by all that knew her...

"Why did you have to leave me? It...why did we have to walk home that day? Why did we have to argue? I just don't..." A chill fall breeze rustled through the trees. "I just don't know how..."

Harold Stevenson just stood there, looking at the gravestone, the tears streaming freely down his face. He made no effort to stop them, just kept his hands jammed inside his gray overcoat. Byron had gone off to play with the fallen leaves, but knew to stay close.

A half hour passed, with no sounds but those of the wind and of Byron playing. Then Harold drew a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his eyes.

By the car Byron crouched, giggling with innocent laughter. With a sudden burst, he sprinted to the small pile of leaves he had so carefully built up. He landed in the pile face first, scattering the leaves. With a child's grace, he tumbled free of what remained of the pile and laughed aloud with simple joy.

Harold smiled and motioned to his child.

"Come on Byron. Time to go home. We have yard work at home to do."

Lyrics for the song "Just the Morning" were written by Lyle Lovett and used without his permission. Since I don't intend to profit from this story, didn't use it for malicious intent and is actually my favorite Lyle Lovett song, I do hope that I'll avoid making anyone angry by using it. Thank you.