On my left something moves. I cannot see what it is from the side mirror. I know it’s big. And alive. I try to remember the rule I learned as a student driver. Should I slow down? Swerve to the right? Slam down hard on the brake? Speed up? No matter how hard I try I can’t think. I slow the car with my foot on the brake. A deer leaps over my windshield. As it disappears into the woods, a car horn blares. I check my mirror and see a long blur of cars behind me. I open my window and give them the finger.
Roberta Beary: “Exiled to Tokyo in the 1990s, I morphed into ‘wife of’ in Japan. I tried to fit in and not lose myself in the process. But it wasn’t working. I was slowly disappearing. Then I found haiku. And lost my husband. But that’s another story.” (website)