The Fall

The following days are a blur.
I don't know precisely what I did in the days leading to the funeral.
I do know that I went to where it happened, trying to piece together how it happened.
The scuff marks , indicative of taking an unexpected curve too fast.
The shallow ditch, which flipped the car into the air.
The large, stately oak, scarred from the impact.
Her blood, still on the tree.
Her hair, imbedded in the bark.
Oh God.

I found out from my brother where the police impound yard was.
I had to see the car.
It had been a black Chevrolet Baretta. It wasn't recognizable as one, anymore.
So much blood.
I could smell her inside the car.
I knealt down next the crushed vehicle, sobbing.
I took the key out of the ignition, and put it in my pocket.

I do not remember much about the funeral. I remember that I placed a rose on the casket, along with the key. Other than that...nothing.

In the days and months that followed, I spent a great deal of time at her grave.

Most of that time, I was drunk.
In my sheltered life, nobody close to me had ever been taken.
I had seen death before.
Soldiers I served with had died, right next to me, on occasion.
Those deaths made sense. It was part of the deal. Soldiers die.

Beautiful, vibrant young women don't.
At least, they shouldn't.

I had never known the depth of emotion I was in.
I couldn't deal with it.
So I climbed inside a bottle to hide from what was glaringly apparent.

Her death was MY fault.