The other day while driving to work, I saw two wrecks.
The second wreck had the most advertising: signs exclaiming Wreck Ahead; signs saying Right Lane Closed--like movie posters, getting audiences all anxious for the release. And like on opening night, the line was just as slow and long.
Now, if I wrote wreck reviews I'd say the actual product didn't live up to the hype. Only shattered glass remained by the time I reached the scene of the accident. And for me, that's a blessed five out of five stars.
The first wreck had been much worse.
No signs had advertised it. In fact it was so fresh, no one had cleaned up the mess. They just had a truck parked a little in advance, flashing its emergency lights. I caught enough of a glimpse to be sick: a motorcycle in the ditch, and something all over the road. Seriously, I almost wept.
At the end of the day, I searched the news. Turns out someone died in the second wreck--the one I didn't see--but the motorcyclist from the first one survived. He'd hit a deer--and it was the deer I'd seen ripped and twisted into chunks.
Somehow that made me feel better, the fact that I hadn't seen a human corpse. But it made me wonder why it should be that I suddenly didn't care.
Recommended poem: "Traveling Through The Dark" by William Stafford