Missing

I won’t hold a grudge – it was over so quickly. One minute I was at the wheel, making a turn; the next, I was dead. I went missing. The guy who hit me is fine. Hung over, of course, and waiting to see if the charge will be murder or manslaughter.

The thing is, the space, the place where it happened, couldn’t stop being itself simply because I died there. It was hard enough diverting traffic just to get the ambulance and cops to the site. Then the guys taking pictures of the skid marks and my brains splashed across the windshield. The city tapped its foot, trying to give me a decent amount of time, but it's Broad and Belvidere, for God’s sake. They can’t close the lane forever.

Forever. I died about 16 hours ago, and I have a long road ahead. Do I stay here and watch folks pass over that spot? It’s not the kind of place you leave a wreath. Just a few twisted pieces of metal.