The Image in the Glass by P.N. Harrison

Some long for the sounds, the telltale thud and the two thumps that follow close behind. The bliss that belies the shriek or the yelp or shout. Others strive for sensation, that moment of catharsis, in the impact. The reverberations that transfer from bones to wheels to chassis to bones.

But me? I live for the image in the glass, the fragile slivers of seconds when they can see their own faces fall from delight or indifference toward fear. The lifetime’s look, haloed in headlights, before a mere moment ascends to an exquisite eternity. An apotheosis witnessed in the windshield.