untitled

“My father?” she spat,
then dared herself to continue.
“My father –

It’s not so much that he’s forgiven himself
but that he’s forgotten who he was.
He’s forgotten how he yelled.
How he hit and kicked.
He lives a different history.
One where he was patient
and we were close.

It would be kind
for me to play along.
But I don’t wan’t to play.
There are words I want him to hear,
things I want him to know.

You were awful.
You were mean.
You were scary.
We were terrified of you.

So no. You don’t get to have this now.
You didn’t earn it.
You didn’t beg my forgiveness for it.
And you can’t have it.

I want to strip him of his new world
and not let him go –
not let him go to heaven
thinking all is well.”

Silence. Arms crossed. Rocking. She looks up.

“Pity.
I hate that I pity him.
He’s like a child believing in Santa.
Wide-eyed believing lies.
And,
he’s so happy.

I was like him once.
A stupid little kid
who happily believed lies.
Only they weren’t lies to me
at the time.
I was a child
being a child.
A child being a child.

And he was trying.
Failing.
But he always tried.
I saw it in his hard work
for a large family.
I saw it in his love for my mom.
I saw it in his apology
after slapping me.

Some people have it easier than others.
Some people can show how they feel.
Some people connect with those they love.
And some people never get beyond the trying.

Excuses, maybe.
But the day I become perfect
is the day I can demand perfect.
And that day is never
going to happen.
All we can do is try
and hope.
And forgive.

And now
childlike,
he remembers trying
and succeeding.
And now
somewhere inside me kinder than my heart,
I want him to know
I’m glad he never stopped trying.

Yes, Daddy, I’ll play.”

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One Response to untitled

  1. Wow! 🙂 Keep writing, Al.

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