Forgive me

We were experimenting with ropes and pulleys

on the kids' new jungle gym. I was trying to throw a swing seat

over a horizontal wooden post. Three times up and three times failed.

On the last effort, the seat bounced off course and whacked my four year old friend

smack dab on the bridge of his nose. Then three things happened.

First, T-man looked like he could not believe it.

His face full of anger filled then with pain,

then -- most remarkably -- he reached out his arms for comfort.

I have been angry at my father lately. So much so, I can barely

talk with him about his impending move. I should be helping,

I should be offering to hang out for a few days and do some hard labor.

Leaving the house where I finally knew and loved my mother,

and knew and found myself able to love him too, is -- for some unexplained reason--

hard for me. Maybe it means that mom is really dead.

That people die. That someday he will die. That someday I will die.

So much is rolled into this shift from one home to another.

A powerful bonk on the most tender cartilage of tip edge of my heart.

Just last weekend, I had a chance to let my state of mind shift from

disbelief to pain, then maybe even into consolation,

but I could not and did not let that happen. I was cold, I think.

Distant. I could not take the chance that he would not understand,

that I would not express myself and that he would not extend his arms

in a loving and comforting embrace. That's only happened once,

and I, honestly, do not know if it will ever happen again in my life.

We keep our distance when we hug. Every time, to me,

it feels like he is still deciding whether or not he loves me.

I wonder what it feels like to him, a man so quiet and roped in.

Isn't amazing how small children can so easily hold anger

and the need for relief in the same moment? Isn't it amazing how easily

we grown-ups reach out and give unmitigated tenderness?

How they tuck their heads into the crook of our necks?

Lean their full weight into our chests, wrap their legs around our waists?

Isn't it amazing how I can be scorching mad at God himself,

saying a cursing prayer that alternates between fear, thanks and need,

every single day of my life, but I cannot do the same with my actual dad?

I do not know where these words are heading and what

my hands want to teach my tonight. I type and type,

not sure what lesson will be tendered up in the last line.

Maybe, this evening, as storm clouds are rolling in from the west,

I simply need to write I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry,

over and over again, like a child in detention

on this blog chalkboard until someone somewhere

reaches out for me and I can tuck my head into his hair,

her collarbone, and sob for a while until I stop hurting

over the pain I cause and the pain that does not seem to heal.