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Whomp

My eyes fly open when the 18 wheeler’s trailer slams into the side of my car. I wake just as the force of impact slingshots my car across the highway. It was… a dreamed memory. Awake, I don’t have to have to fumble my way out of a wrecked sedan, so shaken it took an hour for me to realize that I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I don’t lose my shoes because of a handful of glass chunks is in them. I know it is in the past, it is a memory.  Still—      Whomp. At innocuous moments—                 Whomp. When I am thinking about the accident—                 Whomp.                When I am driving—                 Whomp.                The memory comes, with a whomp, whenever it wants. It overshadows other equally traumatizing memories, coming at least once daily.                Whomp.

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