An exercise in recycling; a lesson in tolerance.
As a communicator, my default assumption is that a situation gone bad—whether at home or work—is all about the medium selected, the words chosen, the tone used. But the failure here was not one of communication, but of nerve.
Sitting in an airport holding pen, I look up, disoriented. Have I missed my flight? As panic rises, the thinking part of my brain rouses. Reluctantly. Sluggishly.
I drop my mystery key back into the catch-all. It could be a sombre warning of all the things I hang onto without reason: the old junk stuffed into basement boxes, the outdated attitudes tucked away on my mind’s shelves.