Driving to IDC last night to return the truck we’d borrowed, I was following behind in the van. Marcel was in the front with all three girls strapped in the back seat of the truck (it’s a kick-ass truck with leather seats, you name it – they were quite happy to hang out there).
As the mind does when both body and mind are tired but neither can rest yet, my meandering brain conjured up pictures of the truck in front of me losing control, crashing into a tree, or busting through the railing of the bridge over the floodway. Common sense tried to regain control and convince my non-submissive brain that no such thing was going to happen, but there was no stopping the film-strip flashing before my inner eyes. It wasn’t long before I’d almost convinced myself that it HAD happened, and that my life, in one devastating moment, had become devoid of all that I love and hold dear. Before long, as I fought back real tears brought on by the fake scenario, my mind had raced on to envision myself hunched over the bodies of my beloved ones in the ditch.
Crazy how the mind works. Before long, all were safe and sound in the van with me, and the family that did not die drove home to their beds.