I Go Back to the House for a Book

  I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor's office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me — a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life.
- Billy Collins

I was introduced to Billy Collins by this post on Ishi's blog. I looked for more of his poetry online, and found this one fascinating. I think about this sort of thing all the time - the tiny choices we make and the potential of vast, unimaginable repercussions.

I was thinking about it a few days ago, remembering a time out in service when i was walking door to door with a friend. We were giving out Memorial invitations, I think, covering territory after territory on a mild, sunny afternoon. This friend of mine, who has lived through tragedies I can't even imagine, was telling me her life story as we strolled along. 

I noticed as we walked into a culdisac that an older gentleman on the other side of the street had come out of his house and was preparing to get into his truck and drive away. I thought about crossing the road and saying hello, and handing him an invitation. But the thought made me a little nervous, so I decided not to bother. I'd just wait till we got around to his house, and if his wife was home, I'd leave it with her. Otherwise, I'd tuck it under the mat. 

When we eventually got around to his house, the front yard and patio were decorated with all sorts of little souvenirs from around the world. Little hanging signs and pieces of colorful outdoor art that told of trips to places like Germany, Portugal, and Argentina. Nobody was home, so my friend and I spent a couple of minutes looking at the souvenirs and talking about how we wished we could travel that much. I left an invitation under the mat, and wished I would have spoken to the man. He seemed like he was probably an interesting person.

A month or two later, I was back in that same cul-de-sac, this time on a return visit with another sister. She pulled into the driveway of that same house with something to leave with the woman who lived there. I immediately recognized the souvenirs on the patio. I must have said something about them, because the sister started telling me all about the couple, how they were in their 50s and loved to travel together. They had just taken their last vacation down to Mexico, and the husband had gone swimming in the ocean one afternoon, and had drowned.

I was stunned. I immediately flashed back to that afternoon when I saw him getting into his truck, and my decision not to walk across the road. I'd thought to myself that there would be other opportunities. I was reluctant to interrupt my friend and her story, and I was nervous about edging out of my comfort zone. So I let it go.

It's not like I think that If I'd handed him an invitation, things would have altered so much that he wouldn't have gone swimming that afternoon in dangerous water. But who knows? Who knows what else might have changed? That might have been the last time he had an opportunity to hear the good news.
I think about it sometimes, and I just feel terrible.