The highway accident

About a month ago I noticed all my stories were gross. Within about 10 days there was a fart, a booger, body odor, a dripping breast and an anal impalement. I could see the theme happening; I just couldn’t get away from it.

This week, I’m noticing a lot of stories about death. I initially put this post aside, but no. I’m giving in to it.

Wednesday I was on the freeway next to a huge cargo truck. We banked to the right and I felt like it was going to tip and crush me. It didn’t.

This is what went through my mind.

Tug, one of the ‘uncles’ we lived with in Boulder, moved in with us when he separated from his wife. He said, “I should have known the marriage was doomed. We were sent a sign.”

They married in Tug’s hometown in Idaho. Fun fact: Tug’s childhood buddy was Pekabo Street, and he lived right next to Ernest Hemingway’s digs.

Tug’s best friend stood up for him as best man. After the wedding, this kid got on the highway to drive back to college. A tire came off of a big truck next to him. I think it crashed through the windshield.

I remember only two details for sure: He was killed, and his mother was following him in her car.

This is one of the many stories I wish I could forget. But everytime I’m next to one of those big trucks, there it is in my mind.

I always imagine the view through the mother’s windshield.

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