The first time I was in a car crash, I was six or seven years old.
That's a long time ago. But there are certain things about it that I remember quite vividly. My father was driving. The road was icy. We began to slide. This was in the days before seat belts and cars had bench seats, upholstered, but not shaped for each individual bottom. My father shot out his right arm and pressed me against the seat back to keep me from flying forward if, indeed, we ended up in hitting something.
But what was most extraordinary, to me, was how long it seemed to take. How time slowed while we slid forward and sideways, heading onto the shoulder, then past it...it seemed as if we had all the time in the world, yet there was nothing we could do to get off the ice, alter the trajectory, slow down...nothing...until we crashed.Read full story
