Bills to pay and Christmas magic to make and relationships to cultivate. Whispers of not enough—time, money, energy, not enough gumption either—play at the edges of my mind as I keep the car moving, finishing one errand to start the next. I try to keep the anxieties at bay without falling into complete avoidance and I’m teaching myself the steps because nobody showed me how to do this stupid dance.

I’m aware, too, of the absolute hell others are living on this same day. That there are mothers who will spend their last moments trying to shield their children from bombs my tax dollars pay for. That babies will cry and no one will hear them. That right here on the road next to me someone may be wracking his brain for ways to keep his sister off the cold street when the drugs she takes make her believe it’s warm.

My own problems feel so big and the problems of The World seem impossible. It is so dark. The things that happen totally out of our control, yes, but darker still are the choices we make to see enemies where we would see friends. If only we could all put down the costumes we wear and the titles we agree to for just like one minute. Maybe then we’d get some clarity. Maybe we’d see that we haven’t evolved too far away from the kids we used to be in Mrs. Bonsack’s classroom putting on aprons or cop hats or picking up baby dolls and declaring what we are right now.

“Wait, now you do this,” says the bossiest among us, who are naturally able to influence and protect.

“What if…” someone exclaims and reveals a creative change in course that will make everything more interesting.

“I don’t want to,” says the least compliant and gives permission for the more compliant to voice their own dissent.

We call it make-believe and we do. We make ourselves believe in the things we pick up for the duration of a recess. Johnny is a garbage truck driver and Ashley is searching for an unknown species in the pond. Then the bell rings and Johnny is a poor student, Ashley a gifted one, Henrietta is a problem child, and we’re made to believe those things, too, until the next break when we can become something entirely new.

When did our pretend play become our identities? When did our playmates become our enemies?

Flashing white and red lights pull me from my worrying and frustration. I am alert now and not in any moment but this one. The siren grows louder as the havoc runs nearer, and one by one we all, the drivers of our own little cars and universes, see it coming up the hill.

One by one we are brought into this present moment.

One by one we make a choice to clear all potential paths.

As if we’d planned it, each vehicle in the long line of vehicles heading down the road pulls to the right and makes room for others to do the same.

It’s the law, yes, but a hard one to enforce. In Mrs. B’s class, when somebody got hurt, the game stopped. We called for help. We cleared a path. And nobody had to tell us it was a rule.

We all wait and hold whatever errands we’re running, fretting we’re doing, plans we’re making, excitement we’re savoring in a “pause game” on the side of the road until we can be sure the paths we’ve cleared are not needed. Then slowly, one by one, we pull off the curb.

I’ve always said a silent prayer or sent earnest hope to follow a fire truck or ambulance, but five years ago the sirens blared their way to my house and then they blared their way to the hospital to save my little sone from a seizure that wouldn’t stop and the gratitude I feel for every driver who pulled over to make way for the seconds that made a difference is overwhelming to me even now. Since then, when I see a siren I recall the map of that literal hell and find the person enduring it this time and send love I hope makes the dark a tiny bit lighter. And I think people must have done the same for me and my family because I think I remember seeing glimmers.

Quickly all the pretenses will return like suction cups to our skin and psyches, but for a few moments we remembered that there are things that matter more than the games we play. For a few moments the safety and care of a stranger took precedent and we embodied our belonging—to ourselves and to each other. For a few moments the truth was revealed naked and simple.

I still have bills to pay and magic to make and relationships to tend. I still have to get this thing crossed off a long and growing to-do list and I need to run by the store for that thing and dammit, the post office, I keep forgetting the post office.

And I will put the proper costumes on at the appropriate times and I will keep getting caught up in the make believe. But every now and then something will call for a pause and I’ll remember that whatever it looks like, we don’t have to make ourselves believe that love matters most.