Ann Gao // BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT

I remember the snow that day,

which soon turned into a blizzard.

I remember telling you,

 

“buckle your seatbelt”

 

you never did.

I remember the weatherman stressing,

 

“everyone should stay off the roads”

 

but we were already half-way home.

I remember feeling the car tires slip.

I remember a snow covered boot slamming down on the brake,

hard.

 

I remember you trying to regain control,

but it was all lost.

I remember blinding headlights of another car

racing towards us,

fast.

I remember you screaming my name.

 

My last words to you echoed in my ears.

 

“buckle your seatbelt”

 

I remember sitting helplessly,

hands slipping as if they were made of ice.

I remember the world going silent,

and then dark.

 

I remember regaining consciousness,

wailing sirens,

scintillating red lights.

I remember paramedics hovering

above me,

their words just white noise,

all I could think about was you.

I remember seeing you,

or what was left of you.

I remember feeling–sudden,

sharp,

stabbing pain,

But numb at the same time.

 

I remember your funeral,

a phalanx of people dressed in black.

I keep remembering,

But I try to forget.

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