The two things I regret are, in order of their importance:
-Once, when I was six, my mom asked me to take out the trash. It was a fairly routine request, and I, being a fairly routine six year old, whined about it. It was a crisp, windy day rapidly chasing bunches of fleecy clouds around, and I wanted to go play in the leaves, not subject myself to the more mundane tasks of the world on such royal occasions as a fall afternoon in Virginia.
Finally, it got to the point where, my mother, exasperated and teary/bleary eyed said, Please?!?! That's all I can do, you know. Just say please. I need your help, Sara. Please help me. I looked at her, the capable adult. If I had looked closer, I might have noticed the armfuls of groceries, the rumply work clothes she still hadn't managed to shed, even though it was a Saturday. If I had listened more acutely, I might have decrypted the background noise into the reality of my father's exasperated baritone: Jesus, Michele, what are you, a fucking idiot? Bring the groceries in here. The water's boiling. I have to go back downstairs. And, for Chrissakes, take the fucking trash out. It stinks like shit in here.
But I didn't do either of those things. I was six, still playful and absorbed by a world that didn't include much more than good times, immune to the affectations of charity and selflessness that a life and it's experiences will bring you.
I turned on my heel and walked away. My mother struggled towards the front door; I could hear the leaves crumple under the weight of the groceries she was, by now, dragging.
I am sure if you asked my mom, she would be able to provide you with a colorful medley of incidences that were much more explosive upon the impact of her memories, where I am concered. But this remains with me. Unmutable, uncaring... it's the boogeyman in my closet, when I am careless enough to leave the door open a crack.
-On my twenty first birthday, I got Drunk. Yes, capital D, without praying to another porcelain god. Luck was a lady that night. My boyfriend at the time had just recovered from a three story fall to concrete, consequently, he was wheelchair bound, still attempting chipperness for my sake. The evening vanished, and last call sounded.
I went home with another man, a friend of mine, Bill. Who knows why. Except that I broke up with my ex about a month later, and all I remember from that night was this overwhelming panic attack blazing through the alcohol clogging up my mind. I didn't want to sleep with my boyfriend. Didn't even want to kiss him, at this point. And I was repulsed with myself.
Perhaps that has something to do with it. But this is neither the time or the place to ruminate on regaining one's footing when it comes to falling in love.
I didn't sleep with Bill. Didn't even touch him, actually. However... at night, surging up on me right when I am drifting towards sleep on grey flannel pillowcases, the questioning blue of his eyes floods my head. Docile, hurt. He simply didn't understand, and, cancelling his pride, as well as his plans for a little breakfast surprise party with me at my place, he did what I told him to. He left.
I found the cake he had carefully placed in my fridge a few hours before, homemade and black cherry forest (my favorite), when I got home.
We are still friends, and we never speak of that. It's possible he doesn't remember it with the same vibrance it has been illuminated to me on sleepless nights. Sorry finds me helpless, in terms of my conscience, or the reality of the situation.
I reflect plenty, say, that was stupid, or why didn't I just do this instead? But in terms of what sticks with me through thick and thin, through pride and prejudice, through rememberance and restoration... these two are it.
My unforgiven.
8:43 p.m. - 2001-08-01
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