As I journeyed home today, the eve of Friday the thirteenth, a black cat crossed my path. Not one for superstition, I made little note of the omen, but on reflection, began to connect it to an earlier happening that day. Merging onto the center lane of an interstate after making a tight squeeze between a car and a large trailer—think something that could taxi a horse—I suddenly smashed my brakes as the giant, white trailer ahead of me came to a halt.
All traffic stopped, and I was now so close to the trailer in front me that I could not see around it. I waited, and after a moment, we slowly began to move. Looking from left to right, I tried to gain a picture of what had happened. There seemed to be a crashed motorcycle by the medium, and a minivan parked off to the side of the road. However, I saw no bodies, no one connected to what appeared to be a fresh accident.
And passing the cat, I thought of this accident, wondering after the missing rider. The incident on the interstate cast a pall over me. I was wary of every turn after that. Then, like something out of a movie, a black cat runs across the road as I drove home this evening.
What could be a more perfect way to usher in Friday the thirteenth?