It has finally arrived!

To Apologies,

I can’t say sorry. I mean it–the word. Sorry. It feels foreign to my tongue, looks like misplaced shapes on the page and feels as if tiny pools of water are exploding in the curve of my throat, foolishness buzzing from the bottom of my stomach. And why is it that I can’t say it. I can write it.  S-O-R-R-Y–a squiggle, circle, humpback, humpback–and what is Y? An upside down dunce cap.

On the page it is a word laid to rest, embossed against white in blue or black ink. The receiving end is the paper itself, it is my own thoughts, my guilt. It is the silence of knowing and not acting.

An apology. You are a strange thing: the coexistence of stubbornness and humility, the intent to take responsibility for what was wrongly said or done.  I don’t know if the word sorry really suffices for your purpose. By definition you are, “an acknowledgement expressing regret or asking pardon for a fault or offense,” but you carry so much more, don’t you think? Apology. An explanation, an understanding, a “clearing of the air” from one party to another.  The latter all have much more depth than a five letter word, sorry.  I cannot be cleansed with sorry.  It does not offer absolution.

I can’t speak the word because after it leaves my mouth it is absorbed by a person with flesh, two eyes, a mouth (like mine), and thoughts or feelings that were disturbed by my own words.

And maybe it’s me. Maybe I have some work to do, to deal with feeling, to sit with you and find comfort somewhere within you, to find solace within myself.

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