One of my teachers at university announced that the class was having a field trip of sorts. We were each required to find our own means of getting there. I had a friend in the class, so she and I (and her friend) planned to carpool together. Separately, another girl/acquaintance asked if I could check with my group and see if she could come with us. (She didn't have a car and didn't want to ride the metro alone.) I agreed to inquire on her behalf.
It's the day of the field trip. My friend (and her friend) and I arrive at our destination. At this moment, I remember the fourth girl, and I remember the empty seat next to me in the car - a space she could have easily filled. I had forgotten to ask entirely. I feel a sense of guilt as I settle down into my seat as the beginning of the day's plans commence. My friends encourage me that, even though she isn't here yet, surely she has found a ride and is just a little late. I allow them to comfort me, so I enjoy the trip.
And enjoy the trip I do. I make jokes. I laugh. I ask questions. I try to see everything I can. I have a sensory overload. I cannot help but smile when we were return to our original room for the end of the trip.
Then I see her: Sitting in the back with a couple of other girls, my acquaintance. She had made it! I feel relieved that she is there, and yet a new-found guilt sweeps over me, too. I know I need to apologize.
But first I rush to the restroom. Upon exiting, I see her there. She just stands, awkwardly, waiting for something unknown. Perhaps there was one girl that was still in there, but I don't know. I apologize as sincerely as I feel. She forgives, but remains quiet. Sometimes she's quiet, and I hope it's just one of those times. I consider my apology as good as I will give it.
My friends and I head to our car. I enjoy sitting in the back, so I take a seat behind shotgun.
Once my friends have settled in, I see it: a large orb weaver spider crawling up the back of the passenger's seat. I cannot think of anything to say but, "there's a huge spider on the back of the seat." My friend in the seat thinks I'm joking, but I can see it crawling up towards her hair. My words fail me, for I cannot say, "it's crawling towards you!" Instead, I say something more like, "move!" She still proceeds to listen and hurriedly leaves the car. The driver and I follow.
The spider crawls out of our vision from outside of the car, and none of us are brave enough to go back in. I eventually gather some courage to enter the car, but I can never kill a spider. (The reason for that is another story all together; just know it's really hard for me to kill a spider and have an okay conscience.) I remember that I have some papers in my purse. I carefully try to lure the spider onto a piece of paper. The orb weaver is not budging; it's not afraid of me.
At this point, some other women, seeing us, approach our car to make sure we are okay. Among these ladies is my acquaintance. We explain the situation and my acquaintance, without fear, steps into the car, and urges the spider onto her hand. She walks over to a tree and lets it crawl off. We thank her several times, and then enter the car, safe* from the spider at last.
As much fun as I had, that last moment adds more guilt to my shame: I had forgotten her. She kindly asked for one thing, and it had completely left my mind. Yet, at the end of the day, her kindness permitted us to get on the road home sooner than it would have otherwise taken. In that moment, I felt rather small, and she rather large.
At least I know she's kind to the smaller creatures.
*orb weaver spiders are actually not really dangerous spiders, but since we were really afraid of it, the safety felt equally as real.
