That Same Road

We'd gone camping out this way shortly before mom died, long ago. Dad had turned too sharply around this exact bend, and she let him have it.

The icy road shoved me forward even as I clenched the brake.

I failed to swerve. A pole bashed against my windshield, spawning a nest of spiderweb cracks. It was like having slo-mo vision: first one glass chip freed itself, then another, then twelve, but by then the airbag deployed and punched me in the face.

Next thing I knew, Mom was scolding me the same way she scolded Dad long ago.