There’s nothing to forgive

You were 33 when you had me and tried for long years to do so because I was wanted– that’s what you said in the red leather-gilt jour­nal you gave me.  I read it once all the way through, have read it a few times since then, haven’t read it much recently, and maybe it’s time.

You were 35 when you had my brother and wanted him too.

I was 27 when I put a name on this thing that was name­less for years but that caused me such pain.  You were 63 and your break was sharper than mine but both of us wal­lowed and mired for years, up and down, nei­ther one of us truly happy for long.  At age 31 or there­abouts you really hurt me (and maybe I really hurt you) and we didn’t talk for a while.  After a while I picked up the phone when you kept call­ing and I started answer­ing as you talked about what was hap­pen­ing with you when I asked.  Some­times I vol­un­teered things about me whether you asked or you didn’t.  It hurt, but I talked to you any­way, know­ing in my head that you tried even as my heart didn’t believe it.  I was about 33 when that hap­pened, the same age you were when I was born.

Now I’m 35 and late to the game and in my second-third-fourth-I’ve-lost-count adult-breakdown-rebirth (though I’d hardly call this spring’s mind-labor nearly so painful as last year’s, and isn’t that what they say about child-birth, it’s not as bad as the first ) I’m real­iz­ing the sim­ple truth of some­thing I saw and heard in a movie.  “Hurt peo­ple hurt peo­ple.” Nature or nur­ture, both of us hurt, and we may hurt in the future.  If we do, if you do, if I do, I’m sorry for that in advance, and I want you to know that I’m try­ing.  And I want you to know that I know and believe, not just with my head, but my heart, for the first time, that you’re try­ing, that you always were try­ing, whether or not you failed or suc­ceeded, and that it’s the try­ing that matters.

You asked me, back when I was about 33 and we were first talk­ing again, that you hoped some­day I would for­give you, and I want you to know that now, a lit­tle bit late (but bet­ter than never), I think I understand.

There’s noth­ing to for­give, there’s only to try.  And I will.