As I headed out to see my mother I couldn't stop thinking about the guy who tried to save me. He was so handsome. The memories flooded back—he was the same age as me. I wanted to call him but I wasn't ready for a relationship. I wondered what his name was and what he was like. Maybe I could find him on Facebook and see. I remembered how he gave me his necklace to keep me warm after the ambulance left. I left my mom's house and got in my car. I drove through a light and hit the brakes, the car behind me didn't see my light change. I hit him head-on.
After his hospitalization, I had no clue where he was. I searched the news every day, calling hospitals, getting no news. I knew what I would find if I called the prison. But I was afraid to do it. When he died, I wasn't sure if I was relieved. I don't know why. My mother was hurt and mad at him.
"What if I went back to the house?" I asked her.
"He's gone," she said.
That was it. We never discussed it. When I thought about my reaction to the crash and what I had thought about him at the time, I knew I had not wanted to kill him. I wouldn't want anyone to die.
After the funeral I didn't know what to do. I went to a workshop on remembering one's life. It was like a kirtan—a meditation led by a man with a huge, gorgeous, golden voice. He read poems and I felt this sense of wonder, like I was floating. I felt I was part of something bigger than myself and I was lifted off my feet. I looked at the audience and saw many people I had known as a child. Their eyes were sunken in. Their bodies were skeletal, they had aged thirty years. They were just walking, talking shells.
After the workshop, I thought about what I wanted to do with my life. I was hoping for a job—like I had before. But, I wondered, "What now? What do I really want to do?" A friend, Rose, told me to become a singer.
I didn't know anything about singing. I asked my friend Bev if I could go to her place and practice.
"Bev, I don't know how to sing," I said.
"I know that," she said. "I'm going to teach you."
