It was during a school trip in grade 9.
Someone said we shouldn’t look outside. At that point even the last one did look, of course. Our bus slowly drove by the site of the accident. It must have happened shortly before. A car stood at the roadside. The ambulance was there. The police regulated the traffic. Somewhere there was a bicycle. A person was lying next to it. We only saw the feet protruding from under the blanket. It was a man. Older than we were, at least.

For most of us, it was the first dead body we saw. Our class teacher tried to help us.

I, too, had a long conversation with her. But it wasn’t so much about that unknown man really, rather about me. That I tended to be more withdrawn, quieter. I suppose it was my reaction to my mother’s illness which had been going on for several years by then.