Personal essay, "Fragments of Mourning" anthology produced via Close Workshops by Fan Wu
Published by Art Metropole, Forthcoming 2018


I think about my hand wrapped completely, intimately around the head of the gear shift, pulling, nudging, using the muscle between my thumb and index finger to slide into 5th gear, the creamy, crackly voice of Ghostface meeting mine, “horny hot fuck from out the mountain,” squinting at the bleeding brass sun. Dissolving into holes in the road, spaces between cars I would close and close and close until I was forced to stop. It’s not that I felt invincible, I just didn’t believe in injury. Death was a thing to be instant. I could move faster than the questions that tore through my head. I had always driven fast; my mother, the mother of four children, racing to school every morning (to be in a fast car was to be in my mother’s arms), but after my sister died, I started to speed.