He Survived, But I Still Grieve
Ever since the accident, I mourn life before fear
1.
I sat motionless, staring out the window of our condo, waiting for the car to pull up. “Any minute, any minute,” I thought, my phone in hand, my finger hovering above the redial button. Your voicemail — exactly how many times did I hear the start of your outgoing message that night?
The moment it began, I hung up and pressed redial.
2.
It didn’t arrive like a tidal wave. Instead the worry was slow, like the plodding up a steep flight of stairs, the sort of unlikely fear that can be explained away.
And so I did.
I brushed it aside, marking it under the category of things that happen to other people in other houses.
3.
But hours later, it was impossible to think past short phrases.
He’s dead.
He’s fine.
He’s hurt.
He’s fine.
He’s dead.
Like an infinite and terrible loop I would never find my way out of, stuck in that labyrinth of uncertainty and terror.
