Recently, I find that memories pop into my mind, full and real. Something that happened a long time ago will bubble up, and I’ll remember the thing, I’ll remember what was said, and I’ll even remember how it all made me feel. I’ll feel that way again, remembering.
The other day, I remembered when my children’s cello teacher’s brother died. He was her closest living relative, his death was completely unexpected, and of course, it all hit her very hard. She was out of town for a few weeks during that time.
After every lesson, I would write her a check for that week. When she returned to the Bay Area and started teaching again, I took out my checkbook at the end of the lesson. I wanted to write her a check for the entire month, of course, covering those weeks that she was away as well as the current week. She wasn’t getting rich as a cello teacher and had no paid personal or sick days that she could take.
But our financial margins were so nonexistent that I couldn’t do it. I mean literally. I remember feeling so heartsick writing that check for that one week, and not being able to do the decent thing and write the check for the whole month.
What I regret: I couldn’t tell her why I was writing the check for the single week. I mean: I was unable. I felt so ashamed and sorry about our situation that I wouldn’t say those words. But I think she would have understood if I could have simply explained.
So the stinginess was that I didn’t share myself with her in a way that might have created understanding, might have at least provided an explanation, other than callousness, for the size of the check. I can still taste that tang of regret.