A little girl handing me a phone.
A man repeating my name as if he might need to remember it.
My mother’s forgotten key.
Eleanor’s letters.
A purple handprint hidden beneath old paint.
I had spent years believing meaningful choices announced themselves.
That you knew when your life was changing.
That there would be music.
Certainty.
A sign.
Instead, sometimes the important choice was tiny.
You heard someone cough.
You stopped walking.
You answered a phone.
You opened a letter.
You asked one more question.
You refused money when accepting it would confuse something that mattered.
You accepted help when pride was the only reason not to.
You stayed.
“I think,” I said slowly, “I was having a terrible Tuesday.”
Harlan laughed.
A real laugh.
Belle shouted from the auditorium.
“DAD!”
He turned immediately.
“Coming.”
Before he left, he looked back.
“Rue?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you missed the bus.”
