Red Room Where the Writers Are

Sometimes, I forget that the cars that pass by mine are not simply machines. I forget that inside, the one who maneuvers the car is a person, just like me—or maybe not so much like me.

Sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, as I sit back in my drivers’ seat, fastened to the chair by my seatbelt, staring at the crimson lights on cars that surround me, I forget that there is a person inside that car. I forget that there is a human who may have cried yesterday and laughed today. I forget that there is a person inside who blinks, breathes.

Staring into my rearview mirror, I forget that there may be a newlywed couple in the car behind me, or a newly born baby in the car next to me. I forget that the girl driving next to me may have just passed a difficult exam, or that the guy driving the car in front of mine may be having the worst day of his life. Sometimes, I forget.

What reminds me is the quick swerve of the car ahead of me, as the driver is shocked by news his passenger just gave him. I remember when the driver of that blue Honda allows me to merge in front of her. I remember when I see a small boy who sits in his carseat in the car that passes me by, his nose stuck to the window, as he waves to anyone who watches.