When I was about six or seven, my mom and I were in the car a few blocks from our house. Some impatient young chap zoomed past us. In his hurried display of aggression, he presented his middle finger in hopes of translating his distain for our existence. I, rattled, immediately burst into tears. In a desire to allay my outburst, mom asked me, “will you remember this in ten years?”
Because I knew she was right, I set out to prove her wrong. I made an exaggerated mental dog ear on this page of life to justify and pacify my moral outrage.
Two decades later, I do, in fact, still remember this incident.
But I can’t say I have a whisper of emotional connection to it. If anything I have more compassion and patience for people who don’t seem to. So while on one side my younger self can happily prove my mother wrong that I remember, she must wave the white flag knowing that it actually all turned out okay in the end.