I was fuming about after-school traffic, how congested even a small town can get, kids pouring like ants into the streets. My silent assault continued at the grocery store, whose aisles careened with leisurely shoppers unfolding the weekly circular starbursted with the latest sales. I kept thinking I was in a hurry - this narrative so familiar and persistent - when it's impatience that colors too many of my pages. While I staggered through the obstacle course of the dairy case, a woman - a mother, a grandmother, a wife - was on her final lines, an innocent riding in the passenger seat as a truck in the opposite lane weaved too far and struck the blow that closed the book for good. This morning, I want to slow everything down - each sip of coffee and blade of grass. Every blink of my foolish eyes.