Pre-dawn Saturday, driving to get my morning coke, I felt a thud against the back of my car that sounded exactly like a glancing collision with another car. I looked in every direction and saw nothing, no car, no animal, no metal anything. When I arrived in the parking lot, I got out and took a look and saw no dents where I'd felt the impact.
Later that morning, as I was leaving to meet Jocelyn for a crafts and antiques fair, a light came on telling me that one of my lights wasn't working. I checked, and they all seemed to be working fine.
Yesterday, Carlene and I were leaving to meet Bob and Jocelyn for a three-person birthday celebration--Bob, Jocelyn and I are all October babies--and Carlene noticed black marks on my fender. No dent, just streaks of black paint.
Collisions, even ones as minor as this mysterious one, leave marks. I still have no memory of another car being on the road, but the black marks tell the truth.
Like a car appearing out of nowhere to graze the metal of another, it occurs to me that the same things happen in broad daylight with acquaintance, even with people who love each other. Even glancing blows, intended or not, leave tracks. Maybe you can't see them when they happen, but every evasion or lie or meanness leaves a streak on the soul of the hitter and the person receiving the hit.
On a larger scale, in a time of violence ramping up, anti-Semitism and racism and antagonism of all kinds fomented by a president who insults people and lies with ease, we can only wonder what kinds of marks are being etched on us as a people.
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