Nine words

     Almost every morning, if it's not terribly cold, Kitty and I take what my wife calls "The Used-To Walk," because it's the route she used to take when she walked the dog, before she started going downtown for work. It's a nice walk; about three-quarters of a mile, total.
    We begin by heading two blocks west on Center, a few step jog to the left, then another block, entering a T dead ending against by a pair of houses I think of as "Sagamore Hill," in that personal iconography you develop after walking around a place for years and years. Lovely, imposing homes, without the tasteless grandeur of the French chateauettes or the futuristic weirdness of all those giant white farmhouses. 
    To the left, in the blue — Sagamore Hill South, I supposed — is all field stone and mullions, Sagamore Hill North, blue gray, has cross braces and solid American style. Both sport generous porches, though I've never seen anyone sitting on one. In fact, I hardly ever see a person associated with the houses at all — I assume they're at board meetings and charity lunches.

    Which is why someone coming out of Sagamore Hill South caught my attention last week as Kitty and I turned on Briarwood. She was bundled up, against the cold, and I couldn't tell if she were an adult or a youth, and decided she had to be the latter. A question of posture more than anything. The young lady got into a mid-size SUV and I continued walking, listening to music.
    I'd just turned right on Catherine, at the corner where The Artist's house is — for a few years she festooned the corner with chalkwork, culminating in her magnus opus, The Enormous Hopscotch — when I heard a bang, so loud it cut through my noise cancelling AirPods.
    I turned, and there was an SUV crunched against a red car that it had hit so hard it had pushed it onto the grass. A third, white car, was parked across the street, and I instantly saw what happened: the parked car narrowed the roadway, both cars had tried to pass each other without yielding properly and the younger driver had plowed into the front of the other car — its whole front left fender was torn off.
     The young woman who'd I'd seen get into her car, a few houses down, moments earlier, was now out of it, cell phone in hand, using the phone to photograph her car's front end mashed against the other vehicle. She seemed okay, and I turned to go. And went a few steps.
     But that didn't seem right, and I turned back, and walked toward her.
    "Are you okay?" I said. 
     She nodded.
    "Do you need help?"
     She thought a moment.
     "No."
     There was nothing more to be said, but that usually doesn't stop me, and I groped for something to say that might comfort her on what had to be a very bad morning.
     "It happens," I said, simply, and Kitty and I went back, the way we came, turning left on Center. Giving me time to see the woman jog back to Sagamore Hill South, knock on the door, where a man in shorts received the bad news, the beginning of not the best morning of the week for him either.
     I felt bad for the young person. We here in the tony North Shore are not often ruined by calamitous events — more inconvenienced and humbled. Forced to call insurance companies and auto shops. Light stuff, comparatively. Though it can feel like ruin, for a while anyway, and anxiety stalks our thickly carpeted halls. I hope she shakes off the troubles, and returns to heading toward whatever glittering future no doubt awaits. Myself, I felt I'd played my small role — it doesn't take much to get involved. In this case, nine words: "Are you okay?" "Do you need help?" and "It happens."
    It costs nothing to care, and hurts no one to try to get involved. Even offering no practical assistance, I felt better for having tried. You don't want to be the person who ignores someone else's distress and just walks away. There are too many of those already.