A near miss
How my life did not (thankfully) change, on an idle Wednesday
I could see the woman’s face, the shock and dismay as she pulls out in front of me and sees me too late. My car shudders, jolts, brakes smoking as I slam them on. Time melts. I think of my children.
My bull bar kisses her car’s flank, nudging it like you’d elbow a friend. I hit the horn in fury. The little blue car scuttles to the other side of the road and I take my time inspecting the front of my car, waiting for my breathing to slow, hot tears pricking my eyes.
I walk across the road carefully, picked up the rubber from my bull bar where it lies like roadkill. The woman stands, holding her own hands, blinking. Her mascara has clumped, little black bits like glitter under the pale blue of her eyes. Her curly hair still damp.
“I would normally have my grandchildren with me,” she shakes her head, then puts her face in her hands. Holds her face up to the sky. “I saw you coming and thought, this is it. I’m going to end up in hospital.”
A mistake. A mistake that could have sent shards ripping through both our families. Cleaved my life into before and after. The could haves curl away from me like buttery ribbon.
My fury circles the drain, disappears. A devastation at all I am complacent for laps at the shore. I give her a hug, feel the rounded softness of her body shrinking into itself. Her hands tap my shoulders, pale moths butting veranda lights.
“Thank you, thank you” she says. For what, I don’t know. That my brakes worked? That I wasn’t yelling in her shaken face? That we both stand here, sucking sweet air into our blessed lungs? “We should buy lottery tickets.” A pause. She shakes her head. “Though I think that was the lottery.” I pat her shoulder. “Keep safe,” I offer, feeble, inadequate. I don’t know her name.
I drive home and the quiet of my car is a bubble. I park and look at my garden, at all the plans I have for it, the future a green mirage bubbling on the horizon. I look at my home, its face framed by the mint of the grapevine shimmering in the breeze.
All the things that tugged at my consciousness early that morning slow and fade, the volume turned down. My to-do list, its tinny speakers of white noise, hushed. I expect to enjoy this home for so many decades. I wake up every day with this expectation like a little golden egg tucked under my wing. I can hear the dogs jostling to greet me at my car door, their bodies noodley with excitement. I am grateful. Tears slide.
The words of columnist Mary Schmich float to the top of my mind:
The real troubles in your life
Are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind
The kind that blindsides you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday
I’m heading to Gilgandra this Saturday to emcee the IWD Panel at Curban Hall. I think it’s sold out (130 women! So wonderful) and I can’t wait to chat and connect. Will report back.
The list
If you’re having a bit of a dodgy day I can recommend changing your sheets. There’s something so cleansing and calming about clean linens. As the nights cool (hurray) I have a cotton kantha quilt from here - mine is no longer available, but Katie has some beautiful ones. A small biz based in the Snowy Mountains.
Sarah Wilson’s Paris recommendations has me dreaming of a European summer
When the news cycle is dismal, I turn to ordinary joys and small pleasures. Films like this, listens like this and Instagram accounts like this. Plus, legs up the wall for five minutes before bed. I like to drape my arms over my head, close my eyes and do nothing at all. In silence.
I love Pandora Sykes, British writer, presenter, podcaster, mother, brilliant brain, style icon. Her substack is excellent, always.
We broiled here over the last week or so. I am yearning for cooler mornings, and feel the Autumnal tug. Bring on woollies, jeans, boots! At least for a fortnight, before I hanker after summer again. I have ordered this in anticipation and am now impatiently waiting for a cool enough moment to wear it.