One :The Mountain 

“Son of a bitch” the words slipping out as easily as the tires slipped on the snowy road.  The Wasatch Mountains in winter can be treacherous more often than not and this unexpected squall was probably the rule and not the exception.  The worn wipers had little effect in the near white out.  This was serious.  And all for that writer’s group.  Too silly to attend, too serious to actually leave.  The all-too well-off ladies of a certain age wallowing in  memories (probably fantasies) of adolescent sexuality.  Too much talk of facials (who has the time?  The money?  The interest?) and the second and third homes and second and third income streams.  And that new comer.  All dark and pseudo spiritual with her “let me read you” and that unexpected spark of static that jumped from her  hand to my ear!  Amateurs and narcissists.  All those years of study and the degrees and now, in retirement, this, driving this old car with old tires on a scary road. “Rina you old fool!”  Both hands gripped the wheel, frantically counter-steering into the skid, skills learned years ago on the icy roads of the East Coast in pre automatic braking system days.  Foot off the gas, pump the brakes, pump the brakes, spin the wheel into the skid, regain some control, slowing, no, skidding again, the bump, the rear end and the front swapping places, knowing the  drop off is near, can’t see it, the feeling of floating, the air bag exploding in your face,  the roaring in your ears, the blackness, the blackness…

Wetness on your face,  Blood?  Snowflakes?  Rain?  Where is the steering wheel?  Was I thrown clear?  What happened to the seat belt?  Where am I?  Panic.  If I am in the ravine, and it is snowing, it will be spring before I am found.  Move arms, move legs.  Pain, not so bad.  Why am I not feeling cold?  Or am I already hypothermic?  Can I stand?  Feel so sleepy.  But isn’t that a sign of a concussion?  Shouldn’t I stay awake?  But so tired. everything hurts.  Dressed warmly enough when I left, but not for this.  What am I lying on? Can’t feel it.  So dark, can’t move my head, Close my eyes.  Just a little nap.  Just ten minutes.  Then get up.  Ten, just ten…

It was more than ten minutes.  And the blankets were scratchy real.  The warmth was real.  There were shadows dancing on the wall as if there were a fire on the hearth.  “It must be some hunter’s cabin. Someone must have seen the crash.  So warm, so tired, let it go, let it go…” And this time you  welcome whatever healing there might be a deep untroubled sleep.  “Sufficient unto the morrow are the evils thereof, or something like that.  That seems to be the way I recall it.  I’ll look it up tomorrow.”  And sleep, sweet sleep added its weight to the weight of the blankets.