Let it go. Her daily mantra. Sometimes hourly.
Her brother doesn’t return her call? Let it go. She leaves yet another message, the fourth or fifth—she can’t remember which—in three days.
Wet towels on the bathroom floor? Let it go. She gathers up the mess and dumps it in the hamper.
A car rear-ends her at the stoplight? Let it go. She smiles, exchanges insurance info, calls the tow truck.
In the end, a small thing breaks her. Insignificant. Anyone else would ignore it. She can’t. She lets go and wonders who will clean up the mess.
My response to a prompt from the fabulous Lana Hechtman Ayers. Drafted in Pemaquid, Maine in June, 2013 and edited into a drabble.
Drabble (plural drabbles): A short story (fiction) exactly 100 words long.
Find more at Drablr.com.