I just finished watching the final episode of Broadchurch.
I cried practically throughout the whole episode. It was intense.
Yesterday afternoon, I came upon two wrecked cars on the side of the road while I was walking home from the store. It was raining, and difficult to see. I’m certain that this is what caused the accident.
One of the cars looked as if its whole front end had been ripped off, while the other just looked crumpled, as if these were cheap child’s toys, rather than full-size cars. Both were resting upright in the drainage ditch, wrapped in yellow police tape.
As I got closer, I realized that one of them was a Chevrolet of a particular dark blue. My heart instantly froze in my chest, as I suddenly thought of my oldest son’s car.
But then I realized that it was not.
My heart thankfully resumed somewhat after, though it still occurred to me that this car wreck had still, likely injured someone rather badly. That observation alone cast a gloom over the rest of my thoughts on the way home.
Letting sights like that get to me feels like weakness lately, and it has been work to push them aside.
And then, this morning, another accident occurred up the road. There was another car upended in another drainage ditch, and there were more sirens.
This time, there was broken glass, and blood still in the grass. I pray that the driver will be OK. I always do.
I have always tried to let these sights pass through me. I try not to let them shake me up.
But, lately, they do.
I tell myself that I must work harder at not letting such things affect me so.
I have been crying too much over such things.