I'm Sorry

I'm sorry. That's what I wanted to say, but I couldn't. I'd made a mistake, and the woman was livid, but I couldn't apologize because we were in separate cars on a busy road. To let me know the extent of her wrath, she pressed hard on her horn for a good thirty seconds longer than average, then garnished the effort with her middle finger. I was terrified.

The thing was, I knew right away that I'd made a mistake, miscalculated the placement of the lane closure. If I'd cut in front of her in line for cheese curds at the fair, or in the security line at the airport, I would have apologized. She would know it was sincere and would be socially obligated to say, "That's OK." And it would be OK. 

But in cars, we're cut off from each other, free to assume the worst. Our relationship with other drivers is adversarial as we compete for open pavement and curse those in our way. If you're particularly angry, you can use your cell phone as a weapon. Just take a picture of another car, and when your insurance company asks, blame them for your accident. Even if they weren't in the crash. Even if they have no memory of you. There is no place for "Sorry". 

I'm thinking of making a bumper sticker that says, "I'm sorry." Or license plates. Maybe taping a sign to my back, because it's not just when I'm driving that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for so many things. And someday I hope to hear you say, "It's OK."

Plastic Bag

For two years, almost as long as I've been writing my novel, the plastic grocery bag waved at me from the top branches of the maple. My writing desk is upstairs at treetop level in what used to be my son's room. From there I can see the steep sidewalk that carries children home from the elementary school just out of view. An endless parade of dogs goes prancing, pulling, plodding up the hill, their owners behind them clutching leashes. Owners who want to demonstrate the complete control of mind over dog dispense with the leash altogether.

 I hated that bag from the moment I saw it and tried to figure out a way to get it down. But the maple had grown in the nineteen years we've lived here, outgrown any ladder we had. The roof looked tantalizingly close, but that was an illusion. In the summer, the bag mingled with the foliage, barely visible, but I knew just where to look. In the winter, it flew triumphantly, a survivor. Storms blew, but its grasp was stronger, twined around the tree's outstretched fingers.

Toward the end, it was in tatters, no longer recognizable. And finally, one day when I sat down to write, it was gone. I marked the day in my calendar as if it were a holiday. Then I looked at the oak tree, where a new bag hung on a branch.

The Hallway

When I was in elementary school, we spent our days in desks like this, arranged in straight rows facing the blackboard. Facing the teacher. If we needed to move about, we formed neat lines. Each child followed someone, certain of her place.

There was comfort in that structure. Maybe I was in the Bluebird reading group or the Robin readers, but I was in. Not out. In the third grade, two teachers inspired zealous class loyalty.  Mrs. Madison and Mrs. Datismun. I'm not sure of the spelling, but I'm positive of the pronunciation. We used to march around the playground in a bizarre competition, yelling our teachers' names. Ma-di-son! Clockwise, following the fence around the blacktop. Da-tis-mun! Counterclockwise. Louder. Like some fanatical Hitler youth.

But I wasn't always in. Sometimes teachers didn't know what to do with me. If I already knew the spelling words, for instance, or read too fast, or could find the parts of speech with lightening speed. Then of course I didn't need to be in the classroom. So I was sent to the hallway. It was darker there. The windows were for kids in the classrooms, not the one in the hallway. It was quiet. Hollow. Lonely.

Now, nearly half a century later I appreciate the gift of looking at life from the outside. It is a place where wisdom lives. So I've begun to speak from the hallway.