The sixteenth anniversary of the accident came and went and I have no idea what I did on that day this year; maybe we were in London, maybe we were lazing about having a picnic in a meadow next to a river.
One thing is certain — I was not thinking about carnage on a rural highway. There is a chance that I have started to forget, though that is not terribly plausible. The better explanation is that I moved to a place where it is neither necessary nor desirable to drive.
Instead of overcoming a paralyzing fear that limited my daily life, I simply moved to a place where I am not required to perform the task that was forever fraught with emotion.
This is a clever trick. I should have thought of it years ago.