I am at the Post Office with my little package, a book I am sending to a friend. The postal clerk begins her chant: Do you have any flammable materials, any toxic chemicals, any weapons, any lithium batteries, any communicable diseases, any unresolved disputes with your neighbor, any lies you have told your partner, any library books unreturned, any coins in your pockets, or any regrets? Yes, I say, I do have some regrets. And she freezes, her stamp in mid-air. I regret not listening to my friends who told me not to jump off the roof. I regret bailing out of art class on the second day. I regret going out with Linda and not dating Jennifer. I regret buying that Ford. I regret not saying anything when they told their jokes, not marching when they killed my neighbor, not voting when I had the chance, not believing we could make a difference, not knowing how good we had it until it was gone. Friend, I regret to say I cannot send the book. Regulations will not permit it, given that I will not retract my regrets. Friend, I await your reply without regret.