Balance
It is rare, but every once in a blue moon I find myself in the role of karma. Walking Karma—a lady named Retribution. Walking Karma ought to have some sort of dramatic attire, like how Hail is personified as being cloaked in grey with icy breath, or the North Wind roaring when he talks. Today I walked into your life by the soft squeak of my sandals, my hair tossed around me as the equivalent of the grim reaper’s cloak. I am not that dark though—I’m not menacing, I’m only retribution.
This began at five o’clock, when the heat smacked into me as I stepped out of my air conditioned vehicle. The sun was getting lower in the sky, but still bright enough to make me squint as I loaded up the children into the nearest cart. We bumped along the rough pavement, metal and tire rattling against each other, only to get another gentler smack upon entering the air conditioned store.
You didn’t cross my mind. I wasn’t thinking about your mother either. I didn’t think about your mother’s need to see her children, even once they are grown. You graduated high school last year, and your mother bought tickets to sit in the stands just so she could catch a distant glimpse of your face as you walked across the stage. It had been so long since she’d been able to see it.
I went about my business. I got the free cookies at the bakery, because sugar makes children happy. I zoomed through the store to the chatter of the tot. “There’s baboons!” She shouted, and maybe it was loud enough for you to hear. “Yes, balloons,” I said. I was enjoying my children. Kind of ironic then, to run into you.
As above, so below.
I know teenagers are dramatic, and divorce does ugly things to families. But I know you too—you know your mother did nothing wrong in wanting a divorce. You grew up in this American culture, even if your parents didn’t. Even though your parents' culture would ostracize a mother for divorcing, you didn’t have to. You made a bad choice, and you feel it in your bones. You knew karma was coming, you just didn’t know when. But good news—retribution is really only a restoration of balance.
It was a funny thing how I saw you. Some old lady jumped in front of me at the checkout lane I was aiming for, so I had to go into yours. I was evaluating the likelihood of another Hollywood alien abduction via the tabloid headlines while I stood in line. Then I was reading off the colors of all the candy to the tot, when I caught sight of you. You are first generation—there is still a foreign look about your features that all the fourth and fifth generation Americans don’t have anymore. I recognized that profile and black hair, even hidden behind thin rimmed glasses.
Your hands moved along, on autopilot. You looked up at me and there was a pause, you took a breath—you recognized me too. You kept moving; you said some polite greeting. That demand for customer service was cruel for you. It is painful to save face. You went through the motions while I said nothing, just watching. It all went swiftly. It was when you handed me the receipt that we locked eyes, holding the gaze. Silently you entreated me: Don’t tell her I’m here.
You read my response. She wants desperately to see you, even if all you do is roll your eyes.
Guilt, and a weaker version of your request still lingered in your brown eyes. I smiled, and walked away. For an instant I had an ethical dilemma in my hands, but only an instant. A suffering mother deserves to see her child, and guilt needs cleansing—retribution was coming to restore that balance.
I had my phone in my hand before I reached the van.