Yet the fate of the rat spoke loudly to me just then, that there are basic realities bearing down on us. I felt impatient with myself and everyone for evading the full implications of what we say we believe, with acting in "ones and twosies when tens and twenties are required" (in the words of a 1960s community organizer whose name escapes me now), with ignoring that we each build a comfortable cocoon of familiar assumptions, hoping it will keep the rain from us, and then are surprised when the wind hurls it away. Each of us faces our roadkill moments, and we hope there's a friendly hand nearby. Sometimes we're the one bowled over, and sometimes we're the hand.
I have to tame myself, thinking about these things. Suffering is so, so poignant. My own roadkill moments are inconsequential compared to those of so many others yet they preoccupy me, which dismays me.
All I can really propose is honesty. Tell the truth to yourself and everyone, even if it's uncomfortable and even as you find ways to soften it. Tell it somehow, and notice roadkill, and grieve a little for what occurred.