Forgiveness

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Finally learning to forgive.
892 words
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I've been dreading that knock. She called to let me know she would be coming over. As per my instructions, and after our last spat I knew she wouldn't risk showing up unannounced. Instead of victory, I feel a spurt of shame. After all, her pride is my pride, to be chastised by someone who should show respect is galling at best.

It was so easy in the beginning. She was a two dimensional shrew; a cuckold wife of an absentee father; she never wanted me, I was her youthful mistake. For years, I loved her yet I hated her. I longed for her praise and died inside at her criticism. The sharp edge of her tongue was all I got. So, if I couldn't have her love, I'd have nothing to do with her. I vowed to be nothing like her, I would be independent, modern and happy. It was all so black and white -- me the wronged heroine, she, the horrible witch. Well, it was mostly black and white. Inside I still longed for a drop of praise from her, no matter how small. So I compromised. I did my best, did my duty. I soldiered on while they leaned on me, they weren't strong but I could be. No one needed to know that inside there was the frantic anxiety and taint of fear. They only saw what I wanted them to see, but even then, there was nothing, just like always.

Then the cracks began to appear. What was I doing this for? Why? Why bite my tongue? Tell her how you really feel! Letting it out was good... for all of 10 seconds. Then the shame came. No matter how hard we try, the lessons we learn by rote stay there. Hiding in the murky recesses of our minds, waiting to leap up and shock us. Or shock me. I expected a lot of things, I didn't expect the shame. What was hidden screamed its way to the surface and the pretence of calm, serenity was broken. My frustration and rage showed it's true colours. Yet, I still was not satisfied. I still hadn't gotten what I wanted. Hell if I cared though? I was still right wasn't I? She was still the evil witch even with tears in her eyes? Wasn't I still the heroine, wronged, or was that poison spilling from my lips? Why did she cry? Didn't she know she wasn't supposed to care? Was I somehow ... wrong?

Alone at last, I can finally think. Distance has given me perspective. Solitude has given me calm. I can look back without the aching pain and I can remember without the grief. Memories pop up unexpectedly each day. So much that I've forgotten, and it comes slowly back. They've been buried for so long that I'm not quite sure if they are real or imagined. They taste real though. They come with a bundle of emotions, so I know they are mine. Some make me smile -- learning to read at 4 in a big, white, concrete kitchen with huge canisters of cooking gas propped against the wall. Helping her make sausage rolls and cakes for a party and being allowed to lick the spoon. Some make my throat tight with tears - her worried face when the doctors stitched my scalp together after next door's dog knocked me into a gutter, splitting it asunder.

Being wrong can be so deflating. So I'm dreading her knock on the door. My hand grips the handle and I wonder, can we really change? Can we end the dance of pride and pain, circling our opponent, wary and lashing out before we are hurt? Will it be too late? Will all our regrets be saved for the pouring of gin on baked earth and the salute to the deceased? It's my place to apologise, to beg for forgiveness, not hers. I feel the burn of tears as I realise she has been pleading. She has swallowed her pride and begged in not so many words, but I was too caught up in my pain to see. I know what it has taken out of her to do this, her pride is my pride. She has disregarded the most fundamental of our truths, that my respect for her is automatic and come down to grovel beside me. My tears are now of regret, I want to change, but will it be enough? Can I come out and bare my soul? It is not our way, we leave so much left unsaid.

When she steps over the threshold, at last all my visions merge into one. Finally balanced and complete, I see her as the woman she's always been. We don't hug or kiss, it's not our way. We talk. We exchange pleasantries. It's... nice. We discuss family over a cup of tea and discuss, not argue. I'm excited at her good news and she is sympathetic to my most recent bout of illness. Sitting here like this I can almost believe we are past it now. I don't say anything but I hope she knows I forgive her and I'm sure she forgives me. As she leaves, she strokes my hair and tells me how nice it looks. I smile. She leaves. I finally let the tears come.

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4 Comments
kalash777kalash7779 months ago

Beautiful. Thank you!

chytownchytownabout 3 years ago
A Real Read***

Make you want to cry and smile. Thanks for sharing.

photolvrphotolvrover 9 years ago
Thank you.

So beautiful! So true! Thank you.

AnonymousAnonymousabout 16 years ago
Ouch.

For all the tension between my father and I, I can most certainly identify. Form old European stock, the father/son and mother/daughter relationships can and usually are quite overwhelming. Such powerfully ambivilant emotions ranging from pure love, to almost absolute hate, all wrestling around simultaneously. You somehow maganged to put it into words. Wow.

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