Waiting For That Rocket

It’s been four years, give or take a day, since the Accident. A day that, despite the many bad days that make up an awkward, bleeding heart girl’s life, tops the list as the worst day in my life.

A fun, light hearted drive that turned tragic with a flick of the power window.

The night I thought I killed (and nearly did) my mom and my best friend.

The night that changed me, my life, and my family, forever.

You’d think that after four years I’d be over it. But I am so SO not. I think because I am the only one who remembers.

My mom and friend have scars on the outside. Scars that have healed. Because they don’t remember, the event is academic to them. They don’t remember the horror of ambulances, helicopters or police cars.

But I do. I wear my scars on the inside. And my heart breaks a little more everyday. (Yes, even four years later.)

Maybe someday I’ll get past this. But it won’t be today. And it won’t be tomorrow. And not likely anytime in the forseeable future.

I hate Thanksgiving.