:: Saturday, November 16, 2002 ::

"Should I be rich, or poor and scattered in my dreams?" (Jennifer Knapp)

Mis apologías for my recent dearth of blog updating. It's been an interesting week (more on that to come soon).
Stu asked: "whats your biggest regret?"
It was early Sunday morning, an undetermined number of years ago. I remember the brightness of unfiltered morning, so brilliant that the pavement gleamed, and misfortune was unthinkable. Sunshine is the master of deadly irony.
We came upon the wreck mere seconds after it had occured; the screech of metal and horrified reflexes was still on the air. A middle-aged man lay on the ground next to his twisted motorcycle. A hastily-parked Chevy pick-up and ominous marks on the guard rail showed plainly enough what had happened.
Dad ran over to see how he could help; I stayed in the car watching every new scene of an unrehearsed drama. Cars slowing down, hesitating... good people on their way to church not wanting to risk lateness for the sake of charity... others stopping, some to stand in the background with helpless curiosity, some to offer cell-phones and first-aid experience... the ambulance screaming, red and blue lights in slow motion like an underwater dream... the man's stomach swelling with internal wounds, his purple underwear when they cut off his clothing, his wife alternating between shock and hysteria. I had never seen someone die before.
All onlookers were ordered away except for my dad, the minister. The sunshine glinted off of changed faces. One person stayed behind--a college-aged girl with blonde hair and stylish clothes, standing alone, hiding her face in two hands that would never be big enough. I heard the whisper clearly: "Go to her." But I didn't. I sat in the car, transfixed by every facet of what I was seeing, simultaneously drawn in and excluded by an intricate dance of emotions.
I later found out that the girl owned the Chevy. She had been on her way to work and changed lanes without looking. She watched that man die too, peeking through fingers that would forever carry the weight of homicide.
And I stayed in the car.

Labels: Yore

:: Bethany Bassett - 2:08 PM :: + ::