apologizing for yourself

between yesterday and tomorrow
i walk to the used bookstore in search of another copy of Allison’s Cavedweller
use most, but not all, of the last bit of money I’ve been hiding
my rat money
for just in case i need a bus ticket, a long distance call, a rain coat
at home i sit with the text in my lap for a long time
open the cover and write in the empty white space that precedes the title page
i don’t begin with a salutation
i’m not after cordiality

Because some day we are both going to die.
And I don’t want to picture you in those days --
lying in a bed – a reduced version of yourself --
looking like you never had the power to knock anyone around
and believe for one minute that either one of us
might still feel some kind of guilt or remorse over actions
that were mostly beyond our control.
I wanted to hate you, but never could.
You wanted to love me, but didn’t know how.
I told you a year ago that forgiveness came long ago.
It was a lie I wanted both of us to believe.
Because you are the only person I’ve ever known who has
made me consider myself in the past tense.
And I realize now that in contacting me, you were attempting
to close one of your wounds. I wasn’t able to hear you then.
But now I want to say that I don’t hold you responsible for those days
when we mixed our lives together and found nothing but anger.
This isn’t meant to be the start of a dialogue. I don’t desire a response.
I want to close the door to something awful, because it isn’t
what my life needs to be about. Even though you’ll be there always.
This, I imagine, is what you wrote to accomplish.
Our lives are infinitely tied together through circumstance
and misunderstanding.
And if you were tired or sick and didn’t know what to do,
I would still care for you – because even things that seem
unconscionable only serve as stern reminders of who we are.

I give these words to you – this novel and my own – as a symbol
of forgiveness and gratitude for contributing to a life less ordinary –

after wrapping the book in plain brown paper
i walk to the post and use my last bit of money to mail it off
there isn’t any wave of emotion
no weights lifted
maybe catharsis isn’t immediate
and as i travel the short distance home
i wonder if it will rain before i can unlock the door and let myself in