An artist I’m fond of related this story to me six months ago. He possesses a keenly scientific mind and is not the kind to speak of these things, these unverifiable things, which is what made this moment so poignant.
It wouldn’t have occurred, I’m convinced
– this moment of revelation to me about things immaterial
– had it not been for the formidable drinks partaken that evening.
This is what he told me: Several years earlier he’d been driving on the highway in Tennessee. At one point he found himself surrounded by semis and trucks. He was grooving along when he was told firmly, quietly: Move right.
He did so
– literally wondering why the f– he was responding to this message in his head – but he did so.
Within seconds a horrific accident ensued, vehicle upon massive vehicle at full-throttle highway speeds, the cause of which he could not have foreseen from his previous position. He escaped the wreckage entirely, though he was shaken by two things. So shaken that he pulled off and sat roadside to puzzle out what had just occurred.
First, if not for the emphatic instruction, he would certainly have been killed.
Second, it was his dead father who’d instructed him to move right.
He didn’t believe in these things
– he told me
– especially when memory of an event is reconstructed, because memory is too unreliable. Yet here he was in the immediate aftermath and there was no doubt it was his long dead father who who’d saved him.
The imprint of his father’s presence was overwhelming.
Why do I like these stories? Because the Inexplicable burbles up everywhere, even to those for whom it is not possible.