Each day I describe the accident a few times to family, friends, co-workers, insurance, my doctor, etc.
They ask, “What happened?”
I’ll describe the little I saw. I leave out the sounds (a deafening crash, the popping of airbags, Los Lobos on the CD player, my cell phone ringing, sirens) and smell (something burnt).
“Are you okay?” they’ll asked with genuine concern.
“Yeah,” I’ll say and then sigh. I show them the the marks on my chest and forearms from the seat belt and airbag, respectively. Those scars and bruises are the only sign I was in an accident.
They’ll respond with something like, “well, the important thing is that you’re safe. Your car can be replaced, but you can’t.”
I look okay, but don’t feel that way.
The susto lingers.