When I was 8 years old, I dropped the gallon jug of milk Mama had just bought from the grocery store. I stood in the parking lot crying tears of guilt and shame that dove and spread into the white puddle at my feet. Why do people say “crying over spilled milk” as if it doesn’t matter? My brain plays back every misstep and mistake I’ve ever made just in case I may have forgotten one. I remember being baffled at how little Mama reacted as she said, “it’s fine, I’ll get another one.” I have never been able to understand people who are okay with messes, even comfortable in them. While me? I hold my breath, scrub away my dirt while smiling, I mean crying, and hope that no one can tell. Hoping that no one can see the big white puddle, now mixed with gravel, at my feet. I keep hearing how there’s nothing to worry about, but in my mind, that just tears at me.