In the late 1970s, I was a student at Ohio State University. I lived in a neat old apartment building shaped like an "E" with small quiet stone courtyards nestled between the letter's stems.
My junior and senior years, I stayed in my little campus apartment during the summer quarter, taking one or two classes. It was so nice. The campus was quiet, High Street was quiet, not too much studying stress and mourning doves cooed outside my second-floor windows every quiet morning.
I had a part-time job as a secretary in the Department of Anthropology, typing poorly written research papers and getting on the nerves of the office manager, who played bagpipes in the women's restroom during lunch break.
One morning I headed out of my building to cross West Woodruff and head over to South Campus, where my job was. I stopped for traffic and saw a dog across the street. I don't know why, but it headed right in front of a car and was run over. I saw it go under the front wheels, tumbling backwards; then the rear wheels went over it.
I was frozen, then amazed to see the dog get up and trot under the shade of a tree on the side of the street it had started from.
Panicked, I ran back into my building, called campus police and ran back out. I don't know what I thought they could do, but I had to do something. The dog was on its side, still breathing, but died within a few minutes. The car had not stopped.
This morning, sitting in traffic, I watched a butterfly land on the hot asphalt and slowly flex its wings. It lifted up, then landed again almost in the same spot. Was it doing what comes naturally, warming itself?
Traffic started and the rush of air drew the butterfly under the car next to us. It fluttered frantically, tumbling, reminding me of that long-ago dog. A wheel barely clipped it and it landed on the pavement, wings going weakly as I watched it fade in my rear view mirror.
All we have is the present and we can only be who we are. Scant protection, though, against the randomness of fate.
