I find a hole in my sweater as I cross the street.
The crossing guard, a kind woman in her 70s, tells me to have a good day.
Did anyone else see the hole? Perhaps I have been the center of scrutiny all day.
Anger spills out, I can’t keep it in.
They laughed at me, whispered to one another when my back was turned.
I won’t be a joke to them, I will be force.
I see someone I recognize, one of the many I see everyday, smile and wave goodbye.
My eyes lighten. The anger turns to silly embarrassment.
It’s a hole, Kate.
I was not the butt of the joke.
if I was,
at least I made them laugh.
(This is a fantastic exaggeration of my day.)