"Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice." - Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Prologue

"I think tonight is a night that I don't want to forget."

The loud chatter all around us from the other patrons enjoying their dinners does little to drown out the sound of my dad's boisterous chuckle from my not-so-stunning statement. He always has a way of being the loudest one in the room and there have been times when that's gotten him into trouble, but mostly it's made the people around him join into conversation and share a laugh.

I'm lucky. Most moments with my parents create memories that I never want to let go of. That's why my statement isn't surprising to him or my mom; I always seem to want to remember everything.

The best memories I have are the moments where my dad is able to make friends with a complete stranger. Or the memories of my mom making a seemingly simple event into a life lesson with her cryptic words stolen from long-dead poets to make the moment seem deeper.

Tonight, however, will become one of my favorite memories. Earlier in the evening, I presented one of my own poems. Out of everyone presenting, I had the loudest and boldest voice. Out of all of the poems, mine held the most meaning when talking about the simplest moments.

The poem had to do with riding in a car. I spoke of my own love of riding in the passenger seat, that there was something about it that provided the ultimate spontaneity. It was the act of letting go, of giving someone else control, that I found thrilling. It may sound dumb, after all it's nothing more than the swap of seats in a car, but to me it was so much more. One could argue that being the driver meant the ultimate freedom with the ability to choose where you end up, but I didn't want to have to choose. I preferred the journey to be a mystery.

It's just a teen poetry contest that my town holds every January, but this was the first year that I had the confidence to enter, and my poem won. The winning poet is awarded the opportunity to publish their poetry in the local newspaper. It's a small contest of little meaning to those outside of our town in Vermont, but to me it means embodying a little piece of both of my parents.

They congratulated me by taking me out to dinner at the restaurant of my choosing. We had the same handful of restaurants that we circulated between in town, so I took the opportunity to go to a restaurant a little further away. About thirty minutes outside of town, there's a small road of iconic restaurants in southern Vermont and I've always wanted to go.

As dinner wraps up and my mother stuffs every morsel of leftovers into the Styrofoam container, upside down of course, I quickly run to the passenger side of our car to enjoy the scenic views on the drive home down Memory Lane. Ridiculously named, it's the only road to get to this street of restaurants. Another thing I love about riding in the passenger seat: it means enjoying the views during the ride. There's something to be said about romanticizing the small moments in life, such as a scenic drive. Sitting behind the wheel takes away from the magnificent views Vermont has to offer and I want to be able to soak up all of the beauty.

The frigid winter air nips at my face and I pull my jacket tighter around my body, dancing from foot to foot as I wait for my dad to unlock the car. Despite living in Vermont my whole life, I have never quite gotten used to the harsh winters. My nose always turns red from the frosty wind within seconds of stepping outside, and my skin becomes brittle if I don't keep lotion on hand at all times.

"Laura Laurier," my dad says as he walks across the fresh snow, his dark boots contrasting the pristine powder with a satisfying crunch under every step.

I pause when I reach his car, turning to face him with a sheepish smile. He's always calling me by my full name when he's going to ask me to do something. I think part of the reason he convinced my mom to name me Laura was for the sheer fact our last name is Laurier. My mom says he convinced her because my name is one that no one could forget, perfect for a future poet. For him, I think he just likes to say it because it sounds a little funny when put together.

"Why don't you drive home?" He offers, tossing me the keys.

The Chevy keychain wraps around a frayed string on my worn gloves, allowing me to haul them into my hands at the last second from the unexpected toss. My parents' car is a huge red Chevy Suburban, one where I can barely see over the steering wheel even with the seat adjusted to my height. Aside from my more passionate reasoning to sitting in the passenger seat, actually attempting to drive their monstrous car is another reason I avoid driving.

"Oh come on Dad, the snow just started up again. I want to be able to look around during the drive home to see how it covers the trees, not stare at the road."

He chuckles when I toss the keys right back to him, nearly sailing them over his head if it weren't for his quick reflexes to snag them before they got lost in the mound of snow at the edge of the parking lot.

"Alright," he agrees, opening the door for my mom to get in the back while I climb into the passenger seat. "Next time, though, it's your turn to drive."

I never could have imagined one small decision would change my entire life course.

As my dad turns onto Memory Lane and begins down the windy, mountainous road, the views along the way distract me from the increasing snowfall. It isn't until the music stops that I tear my eyes away from the evergreen trees getting lost behind a blanket of white to glance at my dad. He rarely frowns. That's something I love most about him and my mom. Their laughter lines are deeper than most parents because they are always smiling. But now, after turning the music off, his face is tugged down into a frown as he concentrates on the road to see through the heavy snowfall.

"This snow is getting worse, I should have checked the forecast before we went to dinner," he mutters as he turns his wipers up higher.

"Do we need to pull over, Noah?" My mom asks from the back seat.

"No, no. We'll be home in another twenty minutes, we just need to get off of this road and we'll be okay."

"You sure, Dad?"

He glances over at me, a reassuring smile sliding into place and putting my nerves at ease.

"Come on, I grew up driving on roads worse than this! So did your mother, we're okay. But you, Laura Laurier, should start to learn how to drive in heavy snowfall. It's a good skill to have."

"Next time," I say.

He chuckles, reaching over to tussle up my hair as he glances at my mom in the rear view mirror.

"You hear her, Carol? Acting like she'll actually offer to drive next time."

I push his hand off as I laugh, pointing to the road. "Eyes on the road, old man. As long as you two are around, I'll stick to the passenger seat."

Seconds later, the snowfall is suddenly illuminated from the headlights of a passing car. They start off gentle, mixing in with ours as we wind around a curve on the narrow road, before becoming harsh. Blinding. Coming straight for us.

My dad's reflexes kick in and he swerves out of the way to avoid a fatal collision, but the road is too narrow and the snow is too thick to reward his strategic move with safety.

Snow is supposed to blanket all sound. But it does nothing to blanket the sound of our car crashing into the metal barrier on the side of the road, built to protect cars from going down the steep side of the mountain that Memory Lane weaves along.

Snow is supposed to blanket all sound. But it does nothing to blanket the sound of my parents' terrified screams as we break past the metal barrier.

Snow is supposed to blanket all sound. But it does nothing to blanket the sound of glass shattering as we flip over and over. More yelling from my parents, a hand clenching mine so tightly the pain from the grip distracts me from the broken glass digging into my skin.

Snow is supposed to blanket all sound. But it does nothing to blanket the sound of sirens in the distance, barely audible above the screams of pain and tears coming from the car.

Until the snow melts away. Fire. The piercing pain on my body becomes icy cold for a split second before the sting turns to a ferocious heat, swallowing up my clothes and reaching my skin on the lower half of my body.

The screams begin to fade. They are replaced with panicked shouting, boots crunching in the snow as they come closer. No, not crunching in the snow. Crunching on broken pieces of glass and metal. But I can't see anything. Something warm and wet is trickling down my face, blurring my spotty vision. My legs continue to burn.

I try to blink it away, try to lift my hand to wipe at it, but I can't move. I try to yell for my mom and dad, but I can't talk. I can only peer through my blurry vision to see a body, flung from a broken windshield, lying eerily still a few feet away. Is someone yelling? I can hardly hear. There's a ringing in my ears, a fiery heat tickling my legs, and an unbearable stinging pain across my whole body.

It's becoming harder to keep my eyes open. I feel myself fading into unconsciousness and I try to fight it. I try to yell out, try to move my body to find my mom and pull her away from the flames engulfing our car. It starts to work and my body begins to move, but not towards the other bodies stuck in this mess.

The ringing gets worse, but within it I can hear the sirens right above me. Frantic voices barking out orders all around. I'm not moving on my own, someone is pulling me away. I want to fight them off, I need to get my parents. It's no use, I can't move. The burning heat biting at my legs suddenly disappears. I can hear a scream, much louder this time. I don't realize it's coming from me.

The last thing I see before everything goes black is our car a few yards away, engulfed in fierce flames, laying upside down with the entire passenger side ripped into shreds. A body laying next to it, twisted in an inhumane way, and another trapped underneath, being eaten by the flames. As my eyes shut, one final thought passes through my mind.

Tonight is a night that I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to forget.

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