It’s okay.
You’re going to forget.
You’re about to start over.
But I still can’t stop the storm in my chest, the feeling in my body saying that something isn’t right.
I try to form words, but I can’t. To ask for a minute or five.
I was glad there wasn’t enough time before, but now I want it.
Now I need it.
My mind begins to blur with images, spinning. The accident.
Spinning.
Goth Guy.
The hospital bed.
Spinning.
The theater.
Zach on the bench next to me, sharing my jacket.
Rory’s gravestone.
Spinning.
These are the things that happened to me.
These are some of the things I did.
I think of “Air on the G String.” This is the piece that reminded me.
I don’t want to lose it.
I don’t want to lose any of it.
But what if I am not strong enough? To take the pain of having just fragments, of knowing that I’ll never truly have all the pieces of my life? What if I am not strong enough even to make out words now, in this fog? To tell Dr. Overton that I don’t want to forget?
I try to form words, but it doesn’t feel like my lips are even moving.
“S…sss…s…”
Stop.
Spinning.
Stop.
Please, please stop.
Spinning.
The things I know about my life are just shards of broken glass, the aftermath, what I’ve been told and pieced together. They are just a shadow, a replica of what happened and how.
