I wouldn’t have blamed you, or the several speeding cars that followed, if you’d hit me. For some inexplicable reason I looked left instead of right before stepping off the curb. And there you were. If my stride had been an inch or two longer I wouldn’t be writing this, or anything else, ever again.
Instead, I froze. Was it a movement in the corner of my eye, or instinct? I don’t know. You blew by me so quickly that reality seemed to stand still. When I stepped back on the curb, I stood speechless and thoughtless, watching the blurry line of cars race past. The curb felt too close to the road, the sound of the cars too loud, the bits of grit and gravel crackling under the tires, the bright sunlight and the marshy smell of low tide, my brain registered these things, but I wasn’t really there.
My husband stood next to me. Neither of us said a word. When I spoke, I could only muster, “Well, that was close.” There were no other words. He replied, “I know,” and we hugged for a long time.
Did you curse me? Do you think I’m a moron? Did you even see me? Do you feel as if you also escaped a careless mistake (mine) that would have changed your life forever?
You kept going. There was no time or place to stop, or even honk your horn. And I imagine if you hit me, the drivers behind you would have too, and there would have been a pile-up. People in other cars might have been hurt as well.
I’ve thought about what my husband would have experienced, but won’t go there now.
This was a split-second, impersonal, and metamorphic encounter. I know how I’d have felt if it were me driving. My deepest apologies for freaking you out. I’m amazed that we escaped this, and grateful to whatever entity or force that intervened.
Wishing you all good things in life,
Jackie