Monday morning I rushed out of the house, already at least 5 minutes late and worried that the soft snowflakes that had started falling overnight would slow my commute. Suddenly I stopped, my brain not comprehending what my feet apparently already knew—I shouldn’t step on the glass that was lying between my car and my roommate’s. I dragged my eyes away from the glass and realized it had come from the space where my car window used to be.
Tiptoeing closer, I tried not to disturb the glass beads glistening beneath my feet. Staring through the void that had held a window, the panic I’d been trying to contain began to rise up. Where was the sorority bag I kept right next to that door? Was it in my trunk? I rushed around the car, glancing in the other windows, barely registering that everything else seemed untouched. I opened the trunk and realized that the bag was gone.
After the police came and took my report, I felt numb. I finished my breakfast without tasting it, longing to stay and spend the rest of the day sitting immobile on my couch. Dutifully I got up and trudged outside, accepting my roommate’s help in trying to patch the new hole. Inwardly I flinched as we pushed the small pieces of glass left around the edge out of our way.
I felt fragile for the rest of the day--moving gently, avoiding speaking and doing my best to avoid making the calls that would make my car whole again. After all, if I didn't make the arrangements to have it fixed, that means it wasn't broken, right?