It happened quickly. A mason jar of smoothie slipped from my hand and crashed on the tile floor. All those vitamins, blended fruits, and spinach were gone before I could drink it. The jar was partly intact, such that I could have scooped up half of the contents and poured it into another cup. But the shards of glass made that idea untenable. Even a slender sliver could wreak havoc on my stomach. No amount of gastric acid can protect me from that. 

On a walk this week, I passed a neighbor and we chatted about the glorious day. I recalled a time a few years ago when I had a bone to pick with her. I was perilously close to saying my complaint out loud. For her benefit, I assured myself. Thankfully, I didn't. My attention flew back to the present, and I was grateful all over again. What a loss it would continue to be, if those sharp words had been spoken. It would have spoiled this friendly moment, and all of the good will I felt now would be lost. Plus, my criticism was as unhealthy as a smoothie with crushed glass. She would probably never have trusted me again. 

My hope is that I can remember how nearly I came to tossing edgy words swimming in artificial sweetness as if they did some good. Which they don't.