It Was an Ugly Couch Anyway: And Other Thoughts on Moving Forward

by Elizabeth Passarella

During the summer of 1987, on our family’s annual trip to Greers Ferry Lake in central Arkansas, my father ran over me with our station wagon. I wasn’t critically injured, but it was close. The tires of the station wagon missed my head by about six inches. I assume it was an accident. Of course it was. As stubborn and tiresome as I was as a rising fifth grader, I’m certain my father wasn’t actually trying to kill me. That said, I never asked him. The incident happened, a narrative formed, we all agreed on the narrative, and then we never talked about it. Now, when I think I’d like to ask my dad about that day and, more importantly, how he must have felt pulling his child out from under a car after (allegedly, accidentally) running her over, I can’t because he’s dead. In the final few years of his life, it seemed like poor taste to bring it up. My family’s vacations to Greers Ferry are some of my favorite childhood memories, station wagon situations notwithstanding.