“The doctor says brain traumas are complicated,” I
yell after her.
I hear the car drive off.
She’s miserable, and like my brain damage, there’s
no cure.
I wander through the house studying every photo,
trying to feel something, but I’m looking in a fun house
mirror. I don’t know that guy, can’t remember what it felt
like to be him, even though I’m there in every photo.
Identity is a strange illusion. There are happy times where I
wear different outfits and big−not frothy, smiles. A
wedding, a cruise, a honeymoon in Hawaii, a church
picnic, my pickup bed filled with camping gear. My truck.
Ex-truck. I lift the frame from the armoire to take a closer
look. Its metallic green exoskeleton shimmers like it knew
its part in the grand plan of my life. Rock ‘n Roll and roll
and roll. My personal metal casket.
They say it was a thirty-foot drop to the bottom of
the ravine. I say I’m still falling.
I turn the picture over and put it back face down
and head to the kitchen.
Before the accident, I never liked dessert. Now, I
don’t even bother to scoop the ice cream into a bowl.
Instead, I plop the cardboard container on the counter and
dig in with a tablespoon. As I savor bite after bite of the
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