I was driving east on Lawson Boulevard about 45 mph when suddenly it appeared everything was in backward motion. I tried to shake-it-off. Maybe I was dosing. Maybe I was deep in a trance of thought. Still, the cars were facing the right way? I was continuing along, but it was as if the earth shifted on its’ axis. In a tunnel of speed, motion was falling backward, and suddenly I lost my breath. Sound was whipping: Wheels on the pavement, radio, railroad gate coming down, a construction team patching a goddamn crater-size-hole that wasn’t there yesterday! Even the humidity had a distinct sound, like Manhattan-air across the skyline on a breeze, and I could tell each from the other even though it was all blended together like a siren. I was driving on an alternate route, parallel universe, because it was impossible that I could still be at the wheel, in control, alive, everything moving but standing still. I was gasping for time being pulled-out from my solar plexus more than for the air from my lungs. The wheezing of that pulling was loudest of all. It was like a humming, the grumbling snore of some motherfucker’s sleep apnea, and the breaks of an eighteen-wheeler screeching to a halt! When suddenly, it all stopped abruptly, and was as if I swallowed the world! My eyes opened, and all I could see at first were my own pupils, too tiny, and when light started to shine-in, it was painful. I watched them dilate and with each expanding, saw the skin on my face was like a map. These few hard lines, that pale brown spot, those enlarged pores, all connected to some story, a memory of a person, past, myself, and a life that went too fast. I could feel the blood in my veins rushing toward the future, and to the leather seats beneath my backbone that seemed displaced. All emotion was in the palms of my hands that felt like magic. I couldn’t remember any longer, where I was from or going to, but I could see and hear everything more perfectly than ever.

This is the day I was reborn from a tragic death and the precarious pieces of a broken heart. A life that wasn’t before it was more than a story could be…

—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved