My mother scares me when she drives. She drives like a frightened foreign woman from a country where men subdue women, and her nervousness makes me nervous.
Where we are now is heading north on Manheim Road in her tinfoil-on-wheels Hyundai. Where we are going is O’Hare International Airport.
I have not flown in 18 years, and all I can think about are television images of commercial airline wreckage scattered across fields like tornado debris. Continue reading “Chances Of Dying Are Something Percent”