Filed under: Identity
This morning as I was going down the stairs in my building, I naturally wondered if my apology note would still be outside the door of the apartment below me, unopened, where I left it on Friday.
I turned the corner and looked and – voila! – it wasn’t there. Good, I thought; he wasn’t refusing to acknowledge it out of some resentment for me.
Not even a split second later, Aunt Clara appears on the landing below me, on her way up to that apartment. You’ll recall that she is the one who said something to me on Friday, so she must be married to the guy I drove bananas.
“Excuse me,” she says, “would you mind carrying this bag for me? I’m a little tired, and it’s heavy.” (She was returning from doing some grocery shopping.) The bag was light as a feather, stiff as a board, and I had no trouble helping her out. She thanked me, and I told her it was my pleasure.
The timing of it all – my wondering if my apology had been accepted, not seeing the letter outside and interpreting it as an answer that it had been, and then being of service to Aunt Clara immediately after – left me with yummy spiritual stardust dancing around my head.
Then, me and Clara went at it in the stairway like dogs in heat in the second reel of a Skinamax movie.
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