The Seeming Profundity of Moments in Slow Motion

     White everywhere. The hill I trudged up each day from the bus wasn't steep. It wasn't the kind of hill that required extra exertion on my bike. Nor was it the kind of hill you'd consider sledding unless you were anti-joy. But on this day, it felt like a hill.
     We hadn't had a snow day, but it was snowy. And icy. I was stomping from the bus to home through the snow, and as I made it halfway up our hill, I could see my dad standing on the back deck talking on the cordless phone with the long antennae. He was probably explaining to my mom why he hadn't driven the two blocks to pick me up because, see, there he is, he's fine.
     Then, I slipped.
     I didn't go down hard; it was slow, deliberate slip. Pretty comical, except for the car that lumbered around the corner. Going maybe 7 miles an hour but completely unable to stop. My dad is fifty yards away with foot deep snow between us, and the car is bearing down.
     Spoiler alert: I'm still alive.
     Strangely, it was all in slow motion. I don't mean that I could see each snow flake as it fell, registered the look on the driver's face, and my dad's voice came to me through some sort of low register voice bender machine. What I mean is that the car and I had the same problem. I was down, covered in mittens, snow boots, bulky coat, and snow pants, and panicking. My backpack was sprawled a foot away from me, and I was flailing and flopping slowly, weighed down by scarf and hat and gloves. I couldn't get any purchase.
     The car didn't have it any better. It just kept creeping, front tires turning back and forth to no effect. I remember thinking, 'This would be a stupid way to do die.' And then I imagined that the car would probably just bump into me and stop, like those concrete blocks at the end of parking spaces. I'll just be a curb.
     But those thoughts were happening somewhere else while the rest of me wriggled and walrused away to the easier traction of the snow on the side of the road.
     It was not a close call. As a matter of fact, as the car rolled past, I felt shame for panicking so hard. I didn't look at the driver. Shaken, I clomped across the backyards between me and my father and up the stairs of our deck. When I walked in the house, my dad and I had an awkward laugh at my not-that-near-death experience, and I went to play Nintendo Golf. I didn't even think to recount the story to my mom later.
     It's a strangely sobering moment to reconsider. As a parent, I can't imagine the horror my dad must have felt being unable to do anything than watch as I seemed to poise to have the most ridiculous and hilarious accidental death possible for a pre-teen. What a conflict.
      Glad we dodged that incredibly slow bullet.