I am driving to work. I spend a lot of time driving. I am singing along with Bryan Adams at the top of my lungs while reviewing the material for the classes that I will teach that day. Without any sign or warning, the pictures start to flash in my memory. I try to turn them off, but they are persistent.
I keep seeing her sprawled on the floor. The blood stained knife close by and the deep lines in her arm weep her blood. The river in my eyes begins its flow as I fight to see the road. I push harder to evict the flashes, but they are carved in my life. I give in and cry as the slide-show of that night goes on. Words join the flashes. The sound of the medics arriving and the police. The sobbing by all of us there who love her and wonder why.
Next to arrive with the flashes are the emotions of the time. The horror of finding her, the worry of whether she is alive or dead and the answering a million questions asked by the police while the head was swimming with worry. I feel the anguish and the tiredness of the night in the hospital. Then the anger and heartache crash together with the revelation of what her dad did to her and how it brought her to this point.
I arrive at my work another song later. Parking in my spot, I choke for breathe and composure. I don’t want to forget, but I want to control the flashes. I do not like getting caught flat footed, but I realize that I do not have nor will ever have control over them. They are and will always be a part of my life… our life… my daughter’s and mine.
