A Moment in Time

I have often thought of this moment.

I don’t know how this is possible.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. But I am not. I am here.

I pinched myself, slapped my face and tried to yell myself awake as I stumbled through the woods leading to this house. I recognize this house.

How can this be?

I can’t be here.

This is not possible.

But I am here. My leg confirms this, the familiar ache of a foot broken 15 years ago both comforting and alarming.

It is May 24, 1988. My mom, the best person I know, dies tonight. More accurately, she is killed by a drunk driver. The driver comes around a bend in the road on the wrong side, causing a head on collision.

My mom and her friend are killed. The driver has not a scratch on him.

There is 10 year old me, begging her to not go on this ride with her friend. I remember, 28 years ago, having a bad feeling about her leaving. I remember begging her not go. I remember her assurances all would be well, Rob, and that she’d be home shortly.

How often have I missed her?

Every day of my life.

I’ve never been mad at her. Never once have I raged against her for leaving. It’s not her fault.

The driver of the truck? That’s a different story. I hated him for years at the same time I grieved for my mother. He went to prison and I…