I threw my telephone into the change well as I entered the highway.  I had just left a message for someone, and decided not to answer if he returned the call.  I heard my father-in-law’s voice in my head, something he said several years ago.  “Get behind the wheel of your car. Make a call. Drive for ten minutes, talking on the phone.  Then pull over, and try to recall what you’ve seen as you drove.”  I tried it; I could not remember a thing.  I recently remembered that conversation and have taken it to heart.  Often.  Usually.  More and more.

My car had crested a hill and begun the descent when I noticed a billow of smoke rising before me.  I hit the brakes, watching the traffic, wondering if I would hit anyone, hoping I could stop.  I’m not a photographer; I’m not a journalist; so when my eyes found the source of the smoke I did not reach for my cell phone’s camera.  I instinctively crossed myself.  Mother of God.

The smoke flowed from the smashed front of a charred vehicle facing the wrong way.  I  swerved to avoid the debris in the roadway as my eyes raked the scene.  A man lay sprawled on the shoulder, half-cradled by another person, a woman, I thought. He flailed arms clad in a red T-shirt; thin, long legs encased in blue jeans  jerked and writhed.  My weak eyes could not discern the features of his face; he seemed impossibly  young.

I saw no emergency vehicles.  Another car lay half in the ditch.  Four or five more had stopped on the shoulder.  White smoke rose from the smashed car.   I heard an urgent sound, low, then rising, louder, higher, frantic.  I thought sirens heralded the approach of help but then I realized:  The woman had begun to sob, to wail, her cry torn from her, urgent, endless, pleading.  My stomach heaved as I struggled to keep my coffee down and my car on the road.  As I drove by, scanning the side of the highway to be sure I could not help, all I could think was:

There, but for the grace of God, go I.