nancy

the search dogs followed nancy macduston's scent to the edge of a cliff. some people think that she was kidnapped, or that she's just out wandering, and she'll turn up one day. i guess it's easier to believe. the way i see it, there's only one explanation, and on most days, i don't blame her.

today, new year's eve, we are stuck in traffic on highway one, in between davenport and nancy's cliff. davenport, california, population 312, looking right in to the mouth of the pacific. not a bad last scenic view.

in the car, aaron complains about the traffic, jordan can't get cell phone service, i have to go to the bathroom. it's getting dark and we are late for getting wasted.

it was a head-on collision.

people go fast on this highway, feeling immortal against the pavement that curves around mountain ridges. everyone in the accident died - so much for the new year. and we, we don't say we hope everyone is ok, we don't say we're happy to be alive.

and i don't mention nancy macduston as we inch past her cliff, how she was a mother and a grandmother and a pre-school teacher. how her house was full of animals, frogs turtles snakes rabbits fish and birds, how before she left she taped detailed instructions on how to care for each animal on their cages. how before she left she brought all her instruments to the pre-school and organized the storage room meticulously, so people could play music and find the things they needed when she was gone. maybe she thought about leaving notes for the parents on how to help their toddlers deal with death and suicide, but decided it was too morbid.

in santa cruz, i drink too much Steel Reserve and pass out before midnight, avoid standing awkwardly in the corner at 12 am watching a room of midnight-kiss-embraces. at 3 am i wake up and stumble outside, vomiting beer, pasta and stomach acid onto somebody's rosebush.

i sit on my knees in the dirt, tucked in to the bushes. i run my fingers along all my little bumbs of scars: at the top of my ribs between my breast and my armpit; the inside of my thighs; the bottom of my ankle near the heel of my foot. secret places of raised skin. i was sixteen and nancy, last year, was sixty.