The first day of the third month was cold and blustery. I expected nothing less. March doesn’t come in like a lion or a lamb around here. It’s more like a buffalo—hulking, filthy, defensive, but majestic and agile too. It can stampede or quietly enjoy a lunch of weeds or grinding it’s back in the dust. It’s an animal that creates clouds. Breath and earth, it emits. March brings winds and daffodils. Forces of nature or forced nature. Either way, March is work.

Here is my work, my play. Just one day of many noted in Owlhaven’s A Day in My Life.

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Sunrise over our backyard, noted when I let the dog outside.

The bed demanding to be made. I’ll get to it eventually.

Backpacks loaded, coats and hats poised. Readysetgo—the three big kids off to school.

I gathered well. My helpers unload the bounty.

Fun at the mall foodcourt photobooth. We shopped and ate lunch after watching a magic show in the kids’ play area.

Home again. Laundry. Beatrix’s laundry was sorted into two groups: Poopy and Non-Poopy.

Our faithful mutt, Junie, on alert as I return from getting the mail.

One of the Target finds was a new highchair. She test-drove it after the big kids went to bed.

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Not photographically noted: our dinner of leftover meatloaf and fish sticks, a baby girl’s sweet potato covered face, the bed made, the laundry folded, the sunset.

I saw a woman holding a baby on her lap. The baby had strawberry blonde hair and appeared to be around ten months old. I watched them happily interact. A man sat to the left of them.

Then the light turned green.

They made a left turn. So did I.

I called the police’s non-emergency line to report what I saw. After I gave the description of the vehicle and the direction it was traveling, I snapped my phone shut and felt terrible.

Why do I feel bad about doing the right thing? I don’t want anyone to get into trouble. I don’t want to be a Mrs. Kravitz.

Yet I don’t want to be the person who could have prevented a tragedy, but didn’t.

I vividly remember hopping from seat to seat to seat in our big green and wood-paneled station wagon. We only had to wear seat belts if we were on the interstate. When my mom drove our red Pinto she let me sit in the front seat and shift the gearstick for fun. There were no laws regarding seat belts or car seats. My parents weren’t careless or neglectful by early 1970s standards. Today’s standards would have demanded orange jumpsuits and mandantory court appearances.

Perhaps that is why I feel so odd regarding my Citizen on Patrol moment. The strawberry blonde baby was sitting on a soft lap, being held by encircling arms. They interacted and seemed happy. They were traveling together.

Through two panes of glass separated by thirty years I considered the scene and decided it was wrong.