The Flash

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die.

Well, I hope it’s also right before you almost die.

Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity states something like time (and probably matter and space, but most important to me in this very moment is time) is all relative. Boring stuff like Mr. Harris’s math class felt like an eternity and holding Jimmy Olson’s clammy hand at band camp evaporated in an instant.

Oh Jimmy. That clammy hand.

My hands are currently death gripping a steering wheel as my car flips for the 3rd or 4th time down a grassy ravine about a mile from my house.

You know they say about 75% of car crashes happen near your home. I should have paid more attention in Stat. Or maybe Drivers Ed?

Ok, that’s what the Flash is like so far. It’s like a William Faulkner stream of consciousness thing. One thought leads to the next and bleeds into the next.

Like a lightning bolt of memories triggering memories triggering more memories.

The Flash is what I’m calling this whole life flashing before my eyes moment.

Everyone says I have my mom’s eyes. A shade of blue that matches my mood. Light and clear on a Friday afternoon without plans and dark and stormy when a request that I see as totally reasonable is harshly rejected by my parents. Shouldn’t every 16 year old girl get the car of their dreams for their birthday?

Car. Now I’m flipping for like the 6th time. Is this a record?

My dad was really into records. He loved the Beatles. He had most of the albums and would play them as he was cooking dinner. Typically with a martini or glass of wine in his hand. The house would be filled with lamp light, simmering garlic and onions (he felt like every dish tasted better with sauteed garlic and onions), and his off key singing. The house felt so warm back then. Just two years ago. I wonder what moments made up his Flash.

It wasn’t quick for my dad though. I mean, relatively speaking to my situation. It was quick when it comes to cancer diagnosis. Really fucking quick. Metastatic pancreatic cancer. I didn’t even know what a pancreas was when he told me. I thought it was like an appendix and we could just pop it out. No biggie.

They did “pop it out” but unfortunately it was a biggie. Dad fought hard, sang the whole time, and cooked for as long as he could. The last thing he made wasn’t anything glamorous but it was my favorite as a kid.

Chicken tenders and fries.

Can you imagine? You achieve pretty decent amateur chef status on the last meal you craft on this planet is routinely made by 16 year olds at fast food joints.

Fresh chicken, dip in flour, egg wash, dip in panko, fry until golden brown. I can still hear the crunch. Best fucking chicken I ever had. I don’t know if I’ll eat chicken fingers again.

Deep fried is how my fingers are starting to feel too. I wouldn’t be surprised if my individual fingerprints are embedded into this steering wheel. Has anyone ever ripped a wheel off with sheer grip strength?

“Get a grip!” is what my mom screamed at me as I slammed the door and ran to the car about 2 hours ago. I’m realizing now, unfortunately, right at this very moment, how much we are the same. Damn it. Her eyes have the same clear, back lit blue when she thinks about a funny joke that my dad would tell and the same storm when she realizes she’ll never hear him tell it again. Dark blue clouds.

It’s raining sideways like the horizon is tilted at 45 degrees. Sheets of cold, angry rain. The kind that comes down in waves like you see in a breezy wheat field. My old wipers are smearing instead of wiping. You had one job, wipers!

My hair looks so crazy flying around this car. Long, wavy blonde strands slowly floating around the cab of this honda civic. It’s like I’m in space. I’m an astronaut. My lip gloss slides past my face and collides with a half-drunk Starbucks refresher. A tiny super nova inside the galaxy of my dependable sedan.

“I hate this car,” I whispered over crossed arms, half to myself but loud enough that I knew she could hear it. “It was your dad’s car. He wanted you to have it,” she said, not hearing or not acknowledging what I said.

“Dad would not have wanted me driving around in this beater. He would have been embarrassed for me.”

“Your father wanted you to be able to go to any college you chose and, his words not mind, ‘for there to be an absolutely banging band and open bar’ at your wedding. So we’ve saved for those things. Not the car. Plus, it’s kind of cute and it’s dependable.” She looked at me. Eyes stuck between clear blue and dark.

The sky is so dark. I can see it pretty clearly every rotation through my broken sunroof. Dad would be so pissed. Or probably not. He’d be pretty scared for me. Like an out of control, 1 ton figure skating duo I continue to spin with my trust sedan. Like the steed I never wanted but with the air bags I never knew I needed so desperately.

The air bags deploy. Smashing metal on metal so much louder than you ever anticipate. Maybe it’s louder because you don’t anticipate it. There is no countdown. No warning. Just BAM!

My Dad runs around to the passenger side backseat and rips open the door. He has to yank on the handle a few times because the frame of the car is bent. His eyes are the widest that I’ve ever seen. He’s scared. I’ve never seen that and it scareds me. It’s only then that I start really crying. He pulls my 4 year old self out of the car seat and holds me so close that, for a second, I think I might suffocate. “Holy crap kiddo. Are you ok?” I nod but I can’t form words. He holds me tight and I don’t remember him letting go for a long time. The first responders had to pry me loose to check out my vitals and even then, he never let go of my hand.

I guess death grips run in the family. Now I’m thinking that maybe I have died and my personal hell is to just keep flipping for all eternity in the semi-weightless, car-trash mosh pit.

The radio kicks on. It’s the Beatles. I’m flipping out. My dad loved puns. Blackbird drifts through one and half working speakers. Like a static filled lullaby that slowly becomes the only sound I hear which is impressive with all of the metal slowly (actually very quickly) twisting around me.

“Can you keep that crunching down so I can hear the music?” Dad says with a wry smile. I throw another greedy handful of Doritos into my mouth. Orange dust cascades onto my white shirt and the rest drifts into a beam of light dancing into our kitchen from the window. It’s the golden hour which means the Beatles are on and the garlic and onions are sauteeing. “Also, last bite, kiddo, dinner is on the way.” I sneak one more handful and loudly crumple up the bag and place it on the counter. “Your mom is going to love what you’ve done with your shirt.” Another wry smile as we both look at the new orange streaks on my once white top.

Mud, blood, and refresher leftovers don’t make for a handsome tie dye recipe, but that’s where we are. Another shirt ruined. Mom is going to be pissed.

“Yeah, I am a little pissed,” mom says when I ask her why she hasn’t said a word the whole day. Well, the part of the day after she gave me the car that I didn’t like. “Your father wanted,” she trails off and strains. Resets her face. “Your father wanted you to have that car. You know he cared so much about you and your future and your safety. He never bought another brand after that accident you had when you were so little. Do you even remember that? You were so young…”

The Honda Civic does another flip, but this one feels different. It’s bigger and now I’m hanging in the air for longer, much longer, than the other flips. Beginner flips. Baby flips compared to this flip. Shit.

The radio keeps crackling:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

“You know why I love the Beatles, kiddo?” dad says over a boiling pot of something that smells like beef stew. “Because you are both suuuuuper old?” I reply with his wry smile. His back is turned to me but I can hear him smile. The smile is still in his voice when he says “No, but close. It’s because they were just a flash. So much genius. So much love. So much… stuff! All captured in such a short amount of time. It was only 7 years but it was enough to last generations” There is a pause, “Yeah well it may end at this generation. Short generational run that one” Dad laughs again. Not a belly laugh but the kind that says “you’ll get it one day.”

One speaker hanging on at this point:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

“Blow out the candles kiddo! I can’t believe you are 15!” Dad laughs with that wry smile. “I’m 5 daddy!” I don’t blow out the candles though. 5 gentle flames wiggle in the gentle, AC induced breeze. Vibrant flames that waiting for 5 year old breath to snuff them out. I hold this moment. I’m 5 and don’t really know what it means to savor the moment, but I do. Then I blow them out.

The crunching stops.

Silence.

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Death grips. They run in the family. My eyes creep open and all I can see if brown and gray hair. Mom. She’s never held anything this firm in her life. I don’t want her to let go. I hear the sirens and see the flashing ambulance lights, but all I can feel and all I can understand is her grip.

We’re going to be ok.

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise