Why don't I smell lemons?
That's the last thing I remember thinking. I read somewhere that right before you die, you're supposed to smell lemons. I don't really know how credible that is, but that's what I thought about anyway.
I vaguely remember two blinding headlights and mom screaming from the passenger seat. The ambulance ride was a blur. A lemonless, life-altering blur.
It's weird. How one minute you can be passionately singing along to an underrated rock song, and the next, planning a funeral for your mom. Your single mom. Pretty much the only family you've got.
They told me it was a drunk driver. Killed in the accident. I didn't know how to feel about that.
I technically died that night. For three minutes and forty-two seconds.
Anyways, that was three years ago.
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An Unextraordinary Lemon-less Life
RomanceWhy don't I smell lemons? That's the last thing I remember thinking. I read somewhere that right before you die, you're supposed to smell lemons. I don't really know how credible that is, but that's what I thought about anyway. I vaguely remember...
