I often wonder whether my accident was a mistake.
Was it meant for someone else?
Was I simply
in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Had I finished one last task at the office
before leaving,
I would have missed that crossing
by fifteen minutes.
Had I lingered over coffee
with my friends,
the speeding car
would have passed without ever knowing my name.
Instead, eager to see my fiancée,
I left too soon
and rode into a moment
already waiting for me.
Steel struck steel.
My scooter crumpled.
My spine shattered,
and the life I had imagined
vanished in an instant.
For years I wondered
whether God had made a mistake.
Now I think otherwise.
Perhaps that hour
had carried my name since the day I was born.
Had the accident spared me,
perhaps another sorrow
would have found me.
My career might have faltered.
My marriage might have failed.
My life might have come apart
one quiet piece at a time.
I will never know.
What I do know
is this:
Though I live in a wheelchair,
my days are filled with peace.
Happiness now rests upon my shoulders
like the first sunlight after a long night.
My brother,
his wife,
and their children
surround me with a love
I could never have imagined.
Looking back,
I no longer see a cruel accident.
I see a turning in the road—
not the life I would have chosen,
but the life
that somehow chose me.
