Recalling a cold, lonely moment in a stubbornly divided time

We were driving on the New Jersey Turnpike when it happened. 

On a family trip from Virginia to our New York family, the weather turned cold and ice covered the ground.It was early evening, just after dark. My father pulled the family Ford with the reclining front seat into a Howard Johnson’s parking lot, suggesting it was time to stop for dinner. About an hour earlier, I thought this was a great idea because I was getting hungry. 

Then I fell asleep, curled up on the back seat, and I didn’t want to get out of the car and walk into the cold. 

“Just let me stay here and sleep,” I whined. My mother, pregnant with my younger brother, protested before I could finish the sentence, but my father, less prone to worry, thought I would be all right and they could bring my food to the car. He locked the car and walked to the restaurant with my mother and older brother.      

I think about it today in a world frozen with disharmony.

I think about it in the midst of the Jewish High Holidays a time of renewal and forgiveness. 

I think about it today because I remember how 7-year-old me was so stubborn, so unquestioning of her stance, that she wouldn’t consider another possibility. I think about it as I remember my nose smashing into the cold ice when I tripped on my way across the parking lot to reach my parents. I think about it because I was actually hungry on that night, but deprived myself of food because I was unflinching in my quest to be right.

I think about trying to wipe the blood from my nose because I didn’t want my family to see that, not only had I become frightened and left the car, but I had gotten hurt. I was worried about them being upset but even more worried about staying in the parking lot alone.  

All of these things are on my mind tonight. Mostly, I am thinking about a little girl, with a bloody nose and a fearful heart, navigating an icy road in the dark, and suffering a consequence of her own making. And I wonder what might have happened if maybe, just maybe, she had been willing to consider an alternative.

Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on X @patriciabunin and Patriciabunin.com