An Ode to the New Yorker

I cannot remember anything that happened before this morning. People seem concerned about me, they talk to me very slowly and sweetly, and are always asking me if I'm okay. But I don't see why I wouldn't be okay, as far as I'm concerned, I've been in this comfy hospital bed for a while, people bring me food, and my room is full of balloons and flowers. I was pretty sure at first that this was how life has always been for me, but this lady who told me I call her "Mom" told me that's not true. I'm not sure what she's talking about, but I know that the nurses tell me it's head trauma. Quite frankly, I have no idea what head trauma is, but it doesn't sound good. My room gets pretty boring, and most times it really only sounds like machines. So usually, much like right now, I just like to watch TV. The news is normally what's on, and I really never have the energy to change it. Today, as I watched I my mouth dropped to the floor. The blue car. I remember. The headline said: Car crash in Philly area on Thursday. The reporter said, "Here is the scene of the accident, where 17 year old Maya was driving home from school, and was hit by a reckless driver. She is in critical condition suffering from head trauma, but it slowly recovering." This is the moment that all of the memories come flowing back, and this comfy bed suddenly is the worst place in the entire world, and these flowers are not pretty, they are a symbol of my struggle.