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I wanted to write about the friendships that have made me who I am. I’ve been thinking a lot about them lately. I wanted to write about being 12 and meeting the people who will become a foundation stone in my life, how at the moment I couldn’t have known how important they would become. Or maybe write about being 18 and doing it all over again. I wanted to write about moving abroad but feeling at home because of the people who welcomed me into their lives. I wanted to write about the good ones, those who are still here. The friends that no matter if we don’t see each other for 5 years, one day we see each other again and the only difference is having more stories to tell each other.
I wanted to be my positive self, a person who ignores her scars because once something has healed there is no use in dwelling on it. But some scars hurt even after they have healed. And some people I think about even after I’ve forgotten. And sometimes I don’t want to forgive, even if there is no use in holding the grudge. Sometimes, even if I try to always paint with sunshine, my palette has darker shades. Maybe this is just me spitting out the bitterness, hoping the aftertaste is only sweet.
I read somewhere recently that memory is a second chance. How badly you must have messed up then, that not even in my memory you get to start over. And I wish I could forget, but I don’t want to forgive what you did, so I hold on to it because as long as I remember I know it won’t be forgiven. And mostly I’m angry at myself because I’m over what you did, so there is no need to remember. My life carried on, almost untouched, I am happy, surrounded by better people. And still, they all know about you. I am angry because sometimes I think about all those dreams we shared, and I’m sad I can’t turn around and tell you “Look, it’s not a dream any more!”. I’m all too aware that I believed I knew everything about you, and now I have no idea who you are. Maybe I never did.
I’m angry because I am over what you did, but not over how blind I was. If memory is a second chance, you’ve been in mine a good handful of times already. Some days I wish to forget, so I could walk through your old neighbourhood and not be scared of running into you. So I could look back on three years of my life and not feel any hint of bitterness. So I could not feel there was a loss, one person less in my life. Was it a loss if I said “good riddance”?
Memory might be a second chance, but one that we can’t play out. Me, turning away the day we met, nor you, not messing things up. Some days I wish I could forget, but I’m scared it might mean forgiveness. And if I’m completely honest, I know I’m better off. That it was all a lesson. In the tragedy of it all, I managed to flourish.
If memory is a second chance, I’m not sure if I hope you remember me too.
On the Back Porch by Dorianne Laux The cat calls for her dinner. On the porch I bend and pour brown soy stars into her bowl, stroke her dark fur. It's not quite night. Pinpricks of light in the eastern sky. Above my neighbor's roof, a transparent moon, a pink rag of cloud. Inside my house are those who love me. My daughter dusts biscuit dough. And there's a man who will lift my hair in his hands, brush it until it throws sparks. Everything is just as I've left it. Dinner simmers on the stove. Glass bowls wait to be filled with gold broth. Sprigs of parsley on the cutting board. I want to smell this rich soup, the air around me going dark, as stars press their simple shapes into the sky. I want to stay on the back porch while the world tilts toward sleep, until what I love misses me, and calls me in. "On the Back Porch" by Dorianne Laux, from Awake. © Eastern Washington University Press, 2007.
Thank you so much for reading, see you next week! Same time, same place ;)
Claudia.
P.S. If you want to see more of what I create, you can check out my instagram and my youtube channel.
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