The truck, as it careened towards my sister and me,
seemed slow-motion —
and the car following, flashing its lights, honking —
that second or two, in memory at least,
goes on for minutes, that's how much information
the brain can fire up in that flash of time passing
or barely passing or, even, suspended —
we moved aside and now I can't recall
whether we leapt or sauntered
because in the flash of another unmeasurable interval of time
the truck smashed into my sister's car
where we had just stood —
and the truck's driver who is a friend, a neighbor,
slumped to the side, drunk,
with a gaze of did something just happen?
And the driver of the car who honked
jumped out and started yelling
about hit-and-run and pedestrians nearly plowed down
and wondered was it a medical emergency? A heart attack? Stroke?
No. None of those.
(But I hugged the honking/yelling driver for alerting us, averting us from certain injury.)
And I recalled how, ten years ago, in the wake
of my husband's DUI death, I knocked on her door
and pleaded with her to seek help, to stop driving, anything.
And how she still drove every day and once knocked down a young tree
but never another vehicle, another human.
Now, hours later, too razzled for sleep,
I can't decided whether to be angry that she almost killed me
or happy that she didn't.
It's somewhere, but I can't find it, not yet.
Maybe in the morning, after this elusive sleep.
Maybe next week.
She left in handcuffs.
She's still my friend.