In the world of almosts, you don’t swerve. You don’t extend your right arm over my chest to keep me from being thrown forward when the airbag hits. You don’t yell “Brace!” so our friend in the back whose singing with his headphones on can have an extra millisecond to hold onto something. You don’t make sure the car hits the guardrail on your side.
In the world of almosts, there’s no damage. You don’t bash your head into the side window. Our friend’s leg isn’t bent backward – bone showing, sweat glowing. I don’t vomit when I see the blood. You don’t lie and tell me you’re OK. You don’t tend to our friend’s leg on adrenaline. You don’t calmly tell me you need me to call 911. You don’t tell me not to worry before losing consciousness getting into the back of an ambulance. You don’t see the sky for the last time.
In the world of almosts, I don’t read your old letters. I don’t look through our photos. I don’t think about the engagement ring. I don’t wear it sometimes. I don’t think about the kids we wanted plump faces – your eyes, my hair. I don’t think back to our first date when I told you I loved animals.
In the world of almosts, you don’t swerve. You hit the deer.