The car almost hit him.

A chilly, but sunny morning awoke a wave of urbanites hurrying on their various ways to work. If the man on the sidewalk swayed an inch forward... If the car swerved to avoid a pothole... If the wind blew away the page... More importantly, if I hesitated to reach out…

This would turn out to be one tragic morning. (Not something I would be able to brag about on Facebook). I would have never forgiven myself. I would have blamed myself for not stopping him. A fatal mistake.

The excuse – it would be awkward, wouldn’t it? Reaching out to a total stranger in a big, grand city of millions of faces? Extending your hand and actually touching a stranger? Unheard of? Just the thought of this awkwardness makes me say: “What has the world come to?” Yet it has, come to this.

I was almost responsible for this man’s life. He was/is a total stranger. A New Yorker. A pedestrian. A husband? A father? An architect?

I hesitated to warn him that he should step back from the approaching wave of cars. Fortunately for all, the cards passed uneventfully. The side view mirror may have been an inch away from his face, as he was reading the paper. It could have been a foot away, but looked like an inch. Either way I almost reached out. Either way I didn’t.

‘Almost’ is such a powerful word because when you hear it, whatever comes after it comes true to life in your imagination. But yet, it is a false prelude. It has the power to drastically change whatever it was meant to introduce. It can minimize significance or magnify a minute nature. It instantly lets you sympathize or smile of joy.

Within an instant the realization comes that whatever was implied to have happened, never did. Yet we usually sigh in relief that something “almost” happened.

Almost does count. It should. Sometimes.