The Veil

I suppose we are always haunted by our past in some way. Buried deep within us are the consequences of our choices and the risks not taken. The words not said. The thoughts unexpressed. I have been present at the bedside of a dying person two times in my life witnessing the last breath of my brother and my mother. I missed Daddy's. My father dropped dead at sixty-four, jogging to the office one morning. They said he was dead before he hit the floor. He’d made it to 608 East Broadway and was flat on his back inside the doorway. With each death I have thought to myself, “well there it was.” There was their life with all its experiences, failings, accomplishments, relationships, loves, joys and losses. I don’t know what comes after we take our last breath, but I believe there is something more. I was shown this early one January morning at highway marker 41 just across the Oregon boarder. The road was icy. As we made the turn around a bend, the car skated across the lanes out of control down an embankment. I was in the passenger seat and as we began to roll, my friend, who was driving said, “I’m so sorry, Amy.” And we rolled. One. Two. Three. Four times. And I waited, thinking, “Well there it was. My life.” And I felt no fear. Only a knowing – not a thought, not a feeling. A knowing. It was, “Oh…I see. We just move from one dimension to the next.” And I waited to die. The car came to a stop on its side. All the windows were out. Glass was everywhere. I hung by my seatbelt, somewhat suspended over my friend. I checked my teeth. They were still there. I checked for blood. There was none. I checked my friend. He was brushing the glass from his face. We were both alive and in one piece. After carefully extracting ourselves from the car – through one of the broken windows, my friend hiked up to the street to flag someone for help. It was freezing. I gathered some of our things from the car. A trucker stopped. I got into the cab and drove back with him to a gas station – about twenty miles from highway marker 41. As we came to a stop, numbly, I asked him, “what is your name?” And he said, “Bob Lees.” I gasped. Nearly hysterical, I cried out, “Oh my God. You are an angel.” You see, my brother’s name was Bob and my father’s name was Lee.” To this day, I believe that we survived this accident because my brother and father protected us. And they sent Bob Lees so that I would know. I've never done anything with this "knowing". But today, I decided to put it out there - as it may bring comfort because there is so little we can really ever do....