Three Car Crashes and the Long Afterward
The story is no longer me and my vehicles but my mother and hers. We called it an accident, but it wasn’t.
I have been hitRelease me.
I was my mother’s first-born daughter, but not her favorite
but not her favorite
Beth is the daughter I wish I’d never had. Beth is too much trouble.
I love you
I remember when I was 22—all day I said to anyone who would listen, “Today is the 22nd of May and I’m 22.” Wasn’t I clever? But I suppose that, in a way, is not all as dumb as it sounds. Perhaps that is one of life’s mysteries—to find a near perfect balance between life’s simplicities and life’s mysteries.
Now last night, when sleep was reluctant to rest on any pillow, I thought of beautiful things I could say to my beautiful 22-year-old—now, however, it just seems that I don’t want to be clever or wordy—I just want to tell you how much I love you—Dad and I—and how pretty your little brown head of curls is. Your smile is an instant frown remover and your talents abound. Mostly, we just love you.
I think I’ve jumped around a lot, but images don’t always assemble themselves in a rational line. Feelings are brittle, porcelain-like. They crack, they chip, and sometimes break into smitherins. (Now there’s a word I’ve heard used many times and don’t think I’ve ever seen. It’s a word, isn’t it?) Sometimes a chip doesn’t matter. But sometimes the finest artisan can’t repair the damage and it must be discarded . . . The summer has been such a maze. Trying to rationalize you there, us here.
You were once an etherial creature.
Beth Kephart is the award-winning author of two-dozen books, an adjunct teacher at the University of Pennsylvania, and a co-founder of Juncture Memoir Workshops. Her essays appear or will soon appear in Ninth Letter, North American Review, The New York Times, Life magazine, and elsewhere, and her new memoir in essays, WIFE|DAUGHER|SELF, is scheduled for release from Forest Avenue Press in spring 2021. She can be found at bethkephartbooks.com.
More by this author
You loved his talent first. You hope that he will not love you less, for all that you do not now achieve.
More in this series
“I am unmoored, my place not easily defined, my presence not immediately understood.”
With words, spelled correctly or not, I could say exactly how I felt: like my head was a ball of snakes, like something extraordinary for once.