every breath

This morning Pam and I were driving to Longview in her black VW bug for a writers’ critique meeting. We hit a wet patch on the highway going about 65 mph. The car hydroplaned, drifting toward the center lane. Then it started spinning.

I held on and watched traffic on both sides of the highway flash by as Pam jerked the wheel hard right to try to break the spin. In those moments I knew we could die. I waited for the crunch of metal against metal. I braced against a sudden jolt.

But no jolt came. We spun to a stop, still in the center lane, facing almost the same direction we’d been traveling.

Pam was breathing hard. I turned to her and said, “You handled that great. How did you know what to do?”

“My dad made me practice correcting a spin before he would let me get my license.”

That was more than thirty years ago.

We started tentatively down the road again, thanking God for the mercy to live another day.

When we turned onto our critique leader’s street we saw black smoke billowing into the sky. Writers are always observant to detail, so I commented, “Something’s on fire.”

It was a wooden out-building across the street from our destination, which had apparently just burst into flames moments before our arrival. Several neighbors were running around frantically trying to make sure the owner’s dogs weren’t penned nearby.

We stood outside and watched it burn to the ground before the volunteer fire department truck showed up.

Critique group went well.

How was your day?