An orange taxi hit me early Saturday morning on my way to a race. I flew over three lanes of traffic before landing. At this point, I guess I could talk about all the particulars of the accident…
the way I landed,
the two words I exchanged with the driver before he sped away,
the way the crash happened in slow motion,
how I raced anyway and how the crash ran through my mind again and again the entire time,
the final lap of the race, when I launched my first-ever successful attack,
falling asleep at least five or six times during my shoulder MRI,
the costs, and tests, and doctors, and attorneys, and phone calls, and…
But really, all of that is superfluous. Because when you fly over three lanes of traffic, the situation stinks no matter what details you add to the mix. At a certain point, details aren’t worth mentioning.
That’s not to say I haven’t kept track of the details. I’ve so far compiled 11 pages of details I’ll need to pursue my claims. The reality, though, is that memories and thoughts are like street signs. Bare, concise capsules of meaning. Snapshots.
DON’T BE STUPID AT THE WHEEL AND FAIL TO CHECK FOR TRAFFIC
BEFORE DRIVING INTO AN INTERSECTION AND HITTING A CYCLIST
In retrospect, I’ll think of this event as “The Taxi Crash” or, more likely, just <thud>
On a brighter note, I tried to make zong zi with my grandma last week. Zong zi are packets of sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves, stuffed with mushrooms and slices of meat.
After watching my grandma make one, I boldly declared how easy it was and started to make my own.
What they’re supposed to look like.
You could call my grandma’s pretty, pointed, well crafted… and mine, flat and ugly. Really, though, details don’t matter here, because I ate both and all I could think was,