Originally published 9/19/16 of an incident in October of 2015.
“M’am? Can you wiggle your toes?”
“Is that my car?” I mumble a few words apparently inaudible to anyone.
“M’am? Can you hear me? Wiggle your toes.”
Is she alive? Is she okay? Oh my God, que feo. We heard it all the way down the street.
The sound of the impact is profuse; it lingers. The ringing in my ears drowns out half of what the medic requires of me. I wiggle my toes. I ask questions and don’t know if anyone can actually hear me.
Lights flash from the outside of my car, muffled by the air bags which have all deployed.
Ma’am, get out of the car.”
Werandownthestreetwhenweheardthecrash. Itwassoloud. Hehitherhard. Lookatthecar.
Noonecouldhavesurvived that.
From inside, through the mangled door, I can see large pieces of my car scattered down the street.
People are gathered around. They stare at me wondering if I’m alive.
