I wish I could tell you that I didn't drive for years.
I wish I could tell you that even the thought of getting in a car made me sick.
I wish I could tell you I shredded my license.
I wish I could tell you all of that,
But I can't.
Because I did,
And it didn't,
And I didn't.

I was a few moments too young to die,
And I held my teenage invincibility
Like my loose grip on my Lincoln's wheel.
This was my dad's car,
And although it was messy with evidence of construction work,
Dirt and dust glimmered like stolen glass treasures-
This was my dad's car.

It was the black-tinted "Mafia Mobile",
And when it was brand-new,
We used to open the roof port,
And blast stupid pop songs-
Always taking the long way home.

I say glass because I was an uncomfortably safe driver-
Like I'd already crashed and I wanted to make sure
That it never happened again.
It was like I was scared to shatter my father's screws,
Or harm his hammers.

So I drove slowly-
Or at least, slowly for the highway I was on-
Even though I was on my way to work
And I was excited to get a good parking spot,
But I'd never driven this way before,
And the truck behind me was following so close,
And my turn was coming up-
And watch your speed-
And my turn is coming up-
And the truck isn't slowing down-
Keep your eyes ahead-
The turn is coming up-
He won't slow down-
Watch your speed-

Stop.

I sat at the seat with the airbag deflating in my face
For what felt like the two hours of a funeral service.
But unlike her service,
I wasn't crying.
I remember tumbling out of the car,
Stumbling a step,
My ears rang from the unexpected silence,
And I was screaming.
The loudest I'd ever screamed.

Strangely enough,
It was comfortable.
Laying in the scream that I'd hidden from my daily tears
Like good wine saved for the right party.

When she died,
I didn't cry.
They told me some grieve better than others,
And by holding my tears,
I was apparently one of them.

But no amount of tragedy prepares you for more tragedy.
It's just the worst deja vu.
And I wasn't crying-
I was screaming.
And to this day,
I am not sure which is more emotional.

And I feel horrible for that.
For not being able to tell you which event was scarier for me
My step-sister and her unborn son dying
In the crash that shattered my step-father,
Or my fender-bender that cost my dad his four-door.

I remember the sky above the crushed car-
It was grey.
I remember the color of her coffin-
It was hot pink.

I remember stepping off into a ditch,
Calling my mother,
Telling her what had happened.
I remember her crying,
And I remember it sounding like
The day she sat next to me in a hard pew
And how she didn't cry until
She had to tell me I'd need to miss school for the funeral
Like she'd had to take the long, winding road
To grief.

I'm wondering if it took me sitting in her seat,
Wearing her seatbelt,
And slamming on her brake
To allow me to scream it out.

I'm wondering if it took me sitting in a waiting room
In my own neck brace,
Laying in my own hospital bed,
And finally crying out of fear and sadness
To miss her.

That night,
I dreamed that the sky above her grave
Was hot pink,
And that all of my skin had turned to grey clouds,
That she drove me home from her funeral
And we took the long way,
And my god,
Did we cry.

(10/3/2017-10/25/2017)