Have you ever noticed that the inexpensive gas station version of cappuccino is much, much better than the expensive crap served in fine china? It's a metaphor. Figure it out.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
What would it take to forgive you?--Writer's Workshop
OF the three Writer's Workshop prompts I tackled this week, this was the hardest. Probably because thinking about my dad makes me cry, and thinking about forgiving others makes us examine ourselves. Thanks MamaKat, for asking me, "What would it take? Write an imaginary scene where someone you are still angry with finally deserves to be forgiven." It's not a scene really, as much as it is a stream-of-consciousness view of my brain at work.
What Would it Take to Finally Forgive You?
What would it take to finally forgive you?
First, I’d have to forgive my body.
My ovaries and fallopian tubes and endocrine system.
And scar tissue.
I’d have to forgive biology and
And endometrial biopsies. And genetics.
And probably God.
Then I’d have to forgive a whole series of birth parents.
And their extended families.
And their dealers and pimps and boyfriends and girlfriends and acquaintances.
And the few might-be-decent-had-they-not-stood-by-and-watched aunts.
Social workers who tried. And the ones who lied.
And the ones who didn’t care enough to do either.
Before I could forgive you, I’d have to forgive my cousin’s wife
who said she’d rather be childless than chance the
drama we have.
And the boss who told me my
daughter would have to learn that
we couldn’t always be there for her.
And the shrink who told us she’d always needs meds.
And the other one who falsely gave us hope.
I’d have to forgive the tiny voice in my head for
Not being loud enough when she screamed
NO NO NO NO NO!
at me at the top of her tiny lungs when we decided to give it another try and
add to our family.
She really should have at least tried to yell louder.
Every time we tried again, she could have tried to find
better ways to get my attention.
That little voice’s failure will be hard to forgive.
And before I could forgive you, I’d have to forgive your parents,
for the ideas they planted in your head.
And that would mean forgiving your siblings—
the halves and the wholes.
It would mean letting go of the subtle snubs about real grandkids.
And I’d have to forgive her.
The one who wouldn’t and didn’t invite us to
your wedding. The one who stood back and didn’t
push you to tell us you’d married until months after, and only because
I asked about the picture of you in a tie.
I’d have to forgive her for not being
grandma to my (adopted) daughters.
And that’s all I really wanted from her.
No it’s not.
That’s not true.
I really wanted her to just give me a chance and
not see me as competition.
But before I could forgive
you for being you, and
her for being her,
I’d have to forgive me for being me.
It was me, after all, who walked away.
I said goodbye.
I told you that you knew where I lived.
And told you that I wouldn’t play the same game
you and Mom (pre-divorce) did with your parents and step-parents.
That me and my kids, and you and your wife were a package deal.
An all or nothing commitment.
And you let me walk away.
But I’d have to forgive myself for doing the walking.
I don’t know if there is enough forgiveness for that.
But I’m lying.
And putting off the real honesty,
which is this cold, hard truth:
All it would take for me
To forgive you
Is for you to knock on my door and ask, “How’re my granddaughters?”
I am a wife, parent, adoptive mom, foster mom, teacher and pet owner. My 6 kids range in age from 9 weeks to 23 years, which means my life is a little on the "needs that prescription filled NOW!" side.
I enjoy dropping the occasional odd reference or big word to confuzzle people. I prefer words with nice sound effects like perspicacity and capricious, and interesting phrases like "pruny zombie wang."
Thanks to abuse and adoption issues, our lives are an interesting mix of psychotropic meds, probation, cheerleading practice and court appearances.