I might have turned off the lights in the bathroom before I walked out and watched how the light from under the door could illuminate the whole room if I waited long enough. I might have let the dog lick me on the mouth. Instead of trying to speak, I might have chosen silence with something held heavy between her eyes and mine. I might have hugged my grandmother a second longer so I could remember the smell of her hair. I might have looked hard at my grandfather one more time to make sure I got what he gave my father so I can give it to my son.
I might have walked slow – slow in the tall grass. I might have cried when my first car died, because it was my loss of innocence. I might have not slept in when the growl of dawn came. I might have walked outside to a different place so I would remember it. I might have eaten everything I could eat, so I know. I might have realized that every day as a teacher in the classroom could be a moment that alters a student's life forever. I might have gone to more sweat ceremonies and I might have meant my prayers more. I might have had more difficult conversations. I might have been more patient – because I'm discovering that patience begets memory.
I might have made it a point to stare at the sky every day and think of a new way to say what it was. I might have lost my worry. I might have lost my fear. I might have done something that was uncomfortable to comfort someone else. I would probably have stopped trying to find answers. I would have been willing to look stupid more often – embrace it actually. I would have failed more. I would have admitted when I was wrong and I would never think I was too right.
I would have tried to live life well, not right.