The crabgrass grows over the place firefighters were certain I sat dead in my crushed car. The

median where the drunk driver crossed arches up green from fog & sunlight. Six months later, I

drive the same highway. This morning, dew drips down from the sunroof, curdles the dry shampoo

in my hair into sludge. The cross breeze shifting between open windows blows gum wrappers from

cupholders. My sunglasses are rhinestone crusty. What followed waking in the ER, I’ll never

admit: puking a gallon of colonoscopy prep fluid, learning to pee in a bedpan. In the hospital, I

share a room with a woman dripping blood from ovarian cancer. I’m there, eyes closed, trying to

breathe, when the translator walks in to interpret her prognosis. I’m sure my roommate is dead,

now. Just a year later. But the moment she pulled herself out of bed, squeezing her abdomen,

rasping out, no te preocupes, to press my call button. That moment, I’m trying to pull glass from

my eye. She’s dying and I didn’t even thank her.