20160318 (midnight confessions)

Confessing hurts, but no one heals if the thorn is not removed.

Everybody makes mistakes. I 

Venture few ever forget them. 

They’re a mixture of carelessness

And subconscious ill intent 

As in the story of a young man

Who wished to say, “Mom, 

Please pass the potatoes,” but

Instead shrieked, “You ruined 

My life, you domineering bitch.” 

Maybe they’re not all that

Rough but many are. Like 

When we felt pressured not

To hurt the feelings of a young

Woman, rather plain of aspect,

And agreed to take her to her

School’s prom. We made her 

Evening regrettably miserable

With stupid comments and 

Hurtful manners. While it’s good

Getting that off my soul before

I die, should I ever meet her

Again I will grovel at her feet

For forgiveness. Perhaps she 

Was hit by lightning and doesn’t

Remember (I should be so lucky).

Or she may have toughened 

Up to spite my churlishness 

And had an enjoyable adulthood,

Having overcome the cruelties

Of childhood, as if to say “OK.

You were a schmuck, but you

Weren’t such a big deal as to

Ruin my future. By the way,

How’ve you been, asshole?”

I’d deserve that and so much 

More. Normal people (I’m

Guessing here) have likely long

Forgotten such errors, but you’re

Not a genuine OCD’er if you’re not

Plagued by memories like these.

Like when you have “forgotten”

Your wedding anniversary and

Have nothing to offer your spouse

Except a shrug and a face that 

Tells her, “Yeah. I forgot. Deal

With it.” Passive aggression is a 

Dish best served cold but you

Can’t deny the heat sometimes.

That messes you up for years,

Sometimes forever, like infidelity

Without the exciting illicit trysts. I

Remember I was a smidgeon who

Kept bothering my mother to 

Buy me some toy soldiers, but

She wouldn’t, saying we hadn’t

The money. She was working in

Her tiny garden when I picked up

A stick and thrashed the hell out

Of her daffodils. I got whacked 

Plenty for that—the childhood

Hatred was so uncontrolled, so 

Pure, I enjoyed the destruction.

And I got the soldiers because

She felt so bad about slapping

Me around. I let her go to her

Grave without apologizing for 

That (and so much else). Once

At the funeral of my dad’s mom

My aunt (I thought I’d remember

Which, but I don’t) threw herself

On the corpse just as the undertaker

Was to close the casket, sobbing 

And pleading, “Ma, Ma, can you

Forgive me?” Up until tonight,

As I’m writing this, I thought

That all pretty strange. I think

I understand it now.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016