Let’s try this. I’ll consider that person over there or next to me in line on the road the one who cut me off in a hurry or voted the other party or plays teeth-gritting music loud or didn’t go to my school or love my team or wear my style or speak my language or moved too quickly too slow to apologize or understand or maybe they tripped on a different mistake—and I’ll wonder what meanness and ugliness and stupidity lurks yet in my heart my own special blind spot cultivated now overgrown. Derision hate ridicule tearing down are all on this coin scraping and scraping a grave deep ocean-wide. Can I imagine that person over there or next to me in line on the road has a mother a brother a grandma a child? That they could be my mother my brother my grandma my child? How they hunger and thirst and ache and love and in that, God knows, they are me, my brother my grandma my child.