I knew my period was coming. I felt it in my paper thin disconnection from the people around me hours before I felt it in my body.
I didn’t know it yet, though, when I drove my car around the bend. I should have. My period has been unpredictable for awhile. I should have known, as I faltered so brilliantly: This was the day it would begin again. But I didn’t.
Not that it would have made much difference.
Half a block from my daughter’s friend’s house, I knew only that the car was packed and we were on our way, forty-five minutes early, all of us eager to begin. The sun was the perfect brightness for mid-morning and I was headed out of town for the holiday in a t-shirt, short pants and sandals. Life. Was. Grand!
When we turned down my daughter’s friend’s street, I was faced with a choice: Drive along the narrow passage to the left of a large, well-marked, gaping hole and risk my wheels tipping into the hole … OR … Drive into the one-inch deep indentation in the road in front of me and risk scraping the bottom of my car.
In retrospect, I should have parked right there at the moment of choice and walked to the end of the block to retrieve our young friend with her overnight bag. But, no.
I drove right into the indentation. Right INTO the indentation. I didn’t understand what was happening when I first began to sink. I didn’t have a sinking sensation. It wasn’t like that. I was stuck. I knew that much. I tried to drive forward. I tried to drive in reverse. I floored the gas pedal. I rocked the wheel back and forth, trying to get a better angle on the bumps leading into and out of the hole, but my car wouldn’t budge. So I put on my hazards and opened the car door to wet cement.
What I love is that when I texted my Honey to let her know I was stuck in wet cement, she called to ask if I was speaking metaphorically. Gotta love being married to a poet, right? I assured her I wasn’t, then got off the phone immediately because people were arriving to push my car out of the hole. More people. Trying again to push my car out of the hole. Trying to help. It still wouldn’t budge.
By then, I’d been talking and trying and scheming and worrying for nearly an hour and my hopes were sinking as the cement dried.
Eventually, two very kind men pulled my car out of the hole backwards across two thin boards, pulling it with a heavy chain up the tilted bed of a flatbed truck. The cement company manager hosed down my tires, removing hubcaps and carefully cleaning the inside of each wheel. He hosed down the under-carriage, too, ensuring my brakes and everything else was free from debris. I was grateful. Embarrassed and grateful.
I mean, even if there isn’t a sign, who doesn’t recognize wet cement?
Still, my car – two hours later and with all four wheels on the road – was much cleaner than when we began. My girl was giggling with a friend in the backseat. And I had the pleasure of knowing we had pulled all the neighbors out of their houses for a mid-morning summer block
party gaper’s circle gathering of concerned citizens. Clearly, our village neighbors had my back. Especially the mother of my daughter’s friend, who didn’t leave my side once the whole time.
One gentleman, after telling me all about the trials and tribulations of his niece’s transracial domestic adoption, even asked if he should take up a collection for the tow truck fee.
I love where I live.
And I love that I’m able, now and again, to drive away. Even if I drive into a few unmarked holes and have to wait for a heavy chain and a handful of kind souls to help. I mean, that’s life, right? Metaphorically speaking.
Here’s hoping for a smooth ride home.