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Lorna Mills and Sally McKay
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When we arrived this morning, the sister, a gregarious little spitfire of a woman, was already there with her bicycle. There were about eight neighbours as well, everyone with flowers and tears. Normally we would take the street and block a lane of traffic for a minute of silence, but the sister was calling the shots and asked us to put all our bikes together on the sidewalk. I understand this impulse. Streets full of moving cars often seem inviolable, even when they have recently interrupted your life by taking away a loved one. It takes experience to know and remember that breaking into traffic flow is surprisingly easy, and claiming street space, even temporarily, is empowering.
We stood together on the corner with our sad banner ("a cyclist was killed here last week"), and held a minute of silence, watching the cars whizz by. Then the sister asked me if I would put my flowers on the fence, across the two lanes of speeding traffic. Of course I agreed, eager to violate that damned street. A few of us crossed and stood in the far traffic lane, tying up flowers to the fence. Once we had broken the seal, the sister and neighbours struck out into the road as well! We held up the banner to block the lane and diverted traffic around the scene. The mourners took their time, standing on the road to pin up flowers. The sister, crying openly now, put out candles and lit a little shrine. I felt very glad to be there, helping provide a little pocket of temporary safety, on this otherwise fatally fast street, so that a woman could mourn her sister on the spot where she died.
Afterwards we were all invited back to the apartment where the sisters lived nearby, and were served wheat cookies in the shape of tiny pigs that the cyclist had baked before she was killed by cars.