Brando is
our blue CRV. HB rode in Brando’s back seat. Five-point-harnessed, the wild
curls of a doll’s red hair tangled around her fingers, an abandoned half-empty
bag of fruit loops wedged between her leg and the seat, she whined, “I don’t
want to go to Nana’s.”
“Someday,” I
said, “when your Mama is old, you will pack up your own little girl and carry
her to visit Mama. And your daughter will wail, ‘I don’t wanna go,’ and you’ll
say this: It’s important.”
“I don’t
wanna go,” she said again.
“It’s
important,” I said.
It isn’t often that while I’m doing something I acknowledge, “I will never regret this.” On the contrary, I have frequently acknowledged the opposite while continuing ahead on an ill-fated path.
I regret
exiting the dirt track at Lowe’s Motor Speedway by climbing the 20-ft fence. I
regret letting a good friendship sour in one reckless, thoughtless weekend.
Ancient and unaffiliated events; both fueled by too much alcohol.
