On W4th street today I spied a white Subaru Outback wagon with a plate that read:
Now if anyone thought my post yesterday was a bit too superficial for the date I suppose it's because September 10 was much more emotional for me than 9/11. For that morning while walking Stan I saw a pretty business woman about my age get run over by a motorcycle. Actually she didn't get run over, she got hit and flew in the air before landing on 7th avenue. She had my ethnic hair but in beautiful glossy black. One not glossy low heeled black pump was in the middle of 7th avenue, one almost on her foot. She had a black calf length skirt on and was wearing grey stockings. Actually if she wasn't on her way to work she could've been on her way to a funeral. The almost blonde woman next to me clutched her child's stroller harder and burst out crying telling no one in particular, "I saw the whole thing! She went flying!" This woman was only a tad less helpful than the man who showed up a few seconds later telling 911, "a woman just fell off her motorcycle." Feeling helpless and not wanting to be one of 100 people calling 911 I ran the block to St. Vincents hospital hating myself for feeling self-conscious about my midriff possibly poking out. I told a doctor outside what had happened. He looked very bored and a bit peeved at me for alerting him to an accident within eyeshot. He said, "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll get her." The fire department did show up a few minutes later. Yes the fire department. I never saw her face, she was wearing a veil of blood. I wish I knew how to find this woman. I want to give her cookies and bath salts and let her tell me for the 1000th time how traumatic it was. I want to do anything and everything for her to plug the hole that is my own gaping uselessness.