Sometimes I watch the man in the benign pastel shirt and the drab khakis with the receding hairline and the thick glasses cross the street with a package in his arms;
And I think to myself, "There goes a good dad, mild mannered, loving - trying to make his way in this savage world."
Then, almost instantaneously, the doubt creeps in: "Or, he could be a monster, who beats his kids, or his wife, or sets fire to homes, or has adolescent prisoners in his basement."
From then on I question everyone I see.
That lovable looking old lady with her sun hat and disabled parking pass might shout racist obscenities from her balcony at poor black kids playing in the park across the street.
The clean-cut young man in the shirt and tie with the papers in his hands may spend his weekends filling envelopes with anthrax spores - one for each name on his list.
I can no longer see the father whose arrival from work is anticipated by a loving family, or the grandmother who delights in handing out the most Halloween candy to every kid in the neighborhood, or the industrious young professional striving to make a meaningful contribution to society.
I wonder if the darkness I see in them is a magnified reflection of the darkness I know that lurks inside of me.