An Otherwise Beautiful Day

The middle-aged woman’s hair was close-cropped, bristled. A buzz cut, I guess you’d call it. She was standing on the street corner with a mammoth, furry brown dog. Her face contorted in horror as she watched me fly through the air.

I watched, too.

From my vantage point, high up in the knotted and burled maple on the opposite corner, I saw everything. The first few times, I shielded my eyes with my hand, or clenched them tightly shut, or averted them to the clouds, which stretched long and flat across the horizon. At some point, I steeled myself enough to keep my eyes on the street below as it happened—pedaling my bike into the intersection, the white, unmarked cargo van approaching, not even braking. I gasped that first time, the breath sucked right out of me like a slug to the gut.

I landed a couple feet in front of them. She cried out, the hand holding the dog’s leash shooting up to her mouth to belatedly muffle her outburst. The dog had been sitting on his haunches, awaiting her command to cross the street. At the sharp crack of the impact, it leapt to its feet and sort of hopped back, all in one motion.

It’s odd; after watching it so many times, I'm still overcome with empathy for them. For witnessing such a traumatic event. And she still had her wits about her to immediately dig her cell out of her coat pocket and call 911. I wish I could meet her. Not to thank her, but to apologize. And to find out why she wears her hair that way. It’s not chemo; her cheeks were round and flush, and her hazel eyes shimmered with a vitality that was unmistakeable.

As for me, well, now I’m sort of...stuck. Not up here in this tree, but, you know, metaphorically speaking. I see that van whenever I close my eyes. I know the make, model, year, and license plate number. What I can’t see from up here is the driver. The woman with the buzz cut told the police she did not get a look at the person. She had been too concerned about me.

I know the driver is scared. Panicked, despairing, remorseful. I can sense it. I know that the driver has not yet told a soul about what happened, and that he or she continues to hide away in some dark, dreary room; the door closed, the shades drawn. Alone. Desperate to keep the memories at bay with the help of a bottle. Terrified to face the future.

I can sense it all.

Some day soon, I hope that when I close my eyes, I won’t see that van. Instead, I will see myself pedaling through that intersection, pumping my legs harder to pick up speed as I wave to that woman with the curious hair.