He never used my name.
He said:
“I once convinced myself that good intentions could excuse withholding
material truth.”
“They cannot.”
That was his lesson.
Mine was different.
Memory is not consent.
Missing information is not permission for someone else to choose for
you.
For years, Daniel told himself that because I did not remember, truth
would only hurt me.
That was arrogance disguised as protection.
He understood eventually.
At sixty, we returned to mountain road where crash happened.
Not for closure.
I hate that word.
Some things do not close.
They become part of landscape.
There was newer guardrail.
Trees taller.
Traffic heavier.
Daniel stood beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’ll probably always be sorry.”
“Probably.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because remorse belongs to you.”
“What belongs to you?”
“My life.”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
We drove home.
No dramatic memory returned.
I never recovered entire night.
