Four years ago last Friday, the car in which my mother, father, uncle, and family friend were driving in flipped several times, slid on its side, and was stopped from dropping several feet by a tree and chain link fence. It had been a simple commute from Wellwood Cemetery, where my aunt’s headstone was unveiled, and the train station, where her former boyfriend was to catch the LIRR back to the city. Somewhere between point A and B, we collided with another car. It hit the rear wheel axel of our SUV, causing us to roll.
I remember gazing out of the left side passenger window, wishing that the day would end. Through a thick silence, I heard my mother say he’s going to hit us. Time moved like molasses, the cloudless blue sky spinning, my body, encased in car, slowly tumbling as though I were trapped within a gigantic washing machine. A mass of blue and green, an abrupt jolt, then halt.
Uncurling from the fetal position, I turned to my right to find the seat empty. There was the sound of rushing water. Peering forward between the front seats, my father, and uncle’s heads slumped toward one another. The rushing was blood.
Once again turning to the right and unbuckling my belt, I found the back seat empty. My mother and family friend, neither of whom was wearing a seatbelt, seemed to have vanished. Twisting further around, I saw my mother’s bare feet jutting upward, her rigid body splayed out across the back of the car, head against the hatchback lock, blood from her nose beginning to pool on the carpet floor. She emitted a low, gurgling moan, and sound unlike anything I had ever heard. In the background, through a shattered window, I saw my aunt’s boyfriend stagger toward the car.
In another time, I have watched the life pass from a loved one. It was an experience that will live with me for as long as I breathe. Four years ago, I glimpsed into a world that, for a split second, was bereft of three family members in a single swoop. Be it luck or higher power, all of them are here today. In those moments when I thought that they were gone, my heart squeezed so tightly, wrenched so violently, tore so excruciatingly, that I thought it would never pump again.
There are no words that can capture the intensity of loss. There is nothing that we can say to take the hurt away, to soothe the ache, to fix the fissure within. Perhaps the only counter, as unequal as it might be, is to love those who have lost harder and more passionately than ever, be it with words, embrace, or simple silence.
for jpf and others, with great love.
