Blink.
Screech.
Slam.
Where am I? What happened?
It was over before I knew it started.
Headed to the store. Or was it work. I don’t remember. Where was I going? Where am I?
Kids in the car?
Kids in the car?
No. Good.
Everything, slow motion. Dream-like.
Puffy latex balloon pressing against my chest. Puff of smoke from the explosion makes me nauseous. Or was it the impact? Or my breakfast?
Sharp shards of glass in my hair.
Fingers. Check.
Toes. Check.
Salty taste in my mouth, seeping in from somewhere.
And then my memory kicked in.
When I was nine.
Mom ran into a parked car.
No seatbelts.
No airbags.
I went through the windshield.
And the other times. . .
Like when I fell off the horse.
Or when I slid down the snowy mountain, backpack slowing my fall.
Or when I spun the car around on the black ice, guard rail stopping me from the chasm.
And when the faceless man pressed a knife against my ribs
And when the faceless man pressed a knife against my ribs
And this morning, when my eyes first fluttered open.
And every second between then and now.
When love was shown to me when not deserved. The simple wonder of clear, crisp air. The comforting smiles of friends and family.
They have all reminded me
That every breath
Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert
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