I am scanning the obituaries in the local paper when I see the name of a neighbor—someone who lived not far from me. I didn’t know she was ill and am saddened by her death.
We weren’t friends, really, but I knew her name and a little about her work and family. This is a small town and if you live here long enough, you run into a lot of people. She and I had crossed paths a few times.
But while I gaze at her picture and read her obituary, I recall that I didn’t like her. Which meant I would acknowledge her when we saw each other but didn’t stop to talk. Didn’t make an effort to get acquainted.
And when I try to remember why I didn’t like her, I cannot think of a single reason. Whatever triggered my irritation was so insignificant, it has vanished. While the irritation remained.
Now my sadness about her death expands to include my own smallness, my petty grievances and grudges. I am ashamed to admit how these unexamined opinions linger—and limit my life.
Sometimes it’s too late to make amends. Sometimes it’s not.