I Want a Do-Over

Maybe it could start at the traffic light on the way home, when my husband stops fifty yards short of the intersection and, surprised, I ask, “Are you having trouble with depth perception?” 

If I get this do-over, instead of challenging his vision—he is sixty-three, and it’s after dark—I look to see if he’s squinting. I pay attention to him at the next light and at stop signs near our home. Maybe I check the calendar for his most recent or upcoming eye appointment.  

Maybe then he doesn’t bark back, “I don’t stand on the brakes too close to the light like you do.” Then the car isn’t silent for the rest of the drive. Then we don’t enter the house annoyed with each other. Then, when he hands me the small box, I don’t accuse him of buying me a gift only because he’s just ordered a new guitar for himself. Wave after wave of life rolls in differently, with love instead of accusation.  

Even if I could have a do-over, I know the out-of-nowhere heart attack ten weeks later would probably still happen. I would still be sitting at his funeral. But maybe my heart wouldn’t wrench in quite the same way every time I wear the bracelet he gave me that night.  

Helen Collins Sitler lives and writes in southwestern Pennsylvania. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her flash nonfiction has appeared in Beautiful Things, The Sunlight Press, Hippocampus Magazine, and Post Road. She has contributed longer nonfiction to narrative medicine journals and Brevity Blog.

This essay is a Short Reads original.