June 13, 2004
Finding Forgiveness In Sparkling Spots on the Windshield
It started to rain while I was driving home from grocery shopping this evening. Little drops-- the gentle rain, the Oregon rain, the kind I like sitting outside and thinking in-- fell on my windshield. I had taken Scholls Ferry Road home, instead of 217, because I wanted the darkness, or maybe the solitude, or maybe something I can't really find on deserted roads but keep looking for anyways.
And why do we keep looking, after the sun has gone down, after we know it's gone, after we become enthralled and captivated and completed by the starlight, after all this and so much more, why do we keep looking?
The raindrops sparkled for a moment as they splashed across my windshield, and then disappeared in the darkness. They sat there, on the glass-- I wasn't using my wipers, and knew they had to be there still-- out of sight, but, somehow, not out of mind. And the sparkles were so pretty, and I wished they would last just a little bit longer, just a little while so that I could--
And what would I do? What would I say? I turned up Angie Aparo a little bit more, trying to drown out the darkness and solitude and anger I never really wanted to feel anyways. Yes. I lied.
Or maybe you did. Or maybe this was all just something that happened, like the things before, and the things after, and the things in between.
But I've known some horrible people, and I've known people that have done some horrible things to me, and you fit into neither of those categories.
Erase. Rewind. Reconsider. Stop.
That yearning. For the places and people we still care deeply for, even when it's dark, and raining, and the large green highway signs seem like the only thing, save the pain and yearning in our chest, that connects us. For a future that isn't isolated and unresolved. For a chance to say thank you to the people who most deserve it. That yearning that hurts because we refuse to forget.
I'm tired of singing
All the sad songs in my head
But I can't find enough of anything
To drown out what you said
- Matt Nathanson
I'm so tired of oscillating between these undefined feelings of incompleteness and uncertainty. Of wanting an apology and wanting what's mine back. Maybe you could start with that piece of my mitral valve. I still need it, you know. I need it to move the blood, oxygenated and ready and waiting, along home. Where the fireplace and oatmeal raisin cookies and smells of mango and happiness are waiting. Where I can look out into the distant dark, and watch the trains move along, humming the sad songs in straight time. Where I can look inside, and find all that there ever was, waiting once again. Where I can find the stillness in that way that is not altogether sad, but rather reminds us that we're older, and, though our records may crack, though we'll end up throwing away birthday cards, though we'll never really know, can still wake up and watch the sun rise.
Under the streetlight, down by the water
Don't worry baby, it's nothing you ever knew
If it makes you feel better, throw down a quarter
Don't worry baby, it won't stick to your shoes
- Angie Aparo
Sometimes, I think I could drown in this place of familiar feelings and promises I promised I wouldn't promise again. How it hangs over my head, and I'm going under, and can't stop. How I gasp for water, because it feels so normal, so safe, so desirable to drown once again. How I still try to hold onto the new memories and bright lights and whispers in the dark, but they always seem to be connected to the lifeguard who can't swim, to whom I don't want to drown with me. How the time is never now when we're looking back, and faded.
Breathe in the quiet regret you promised that you wouldn't feel. Breathe out the moments you can't have back anyways. Whisper, "Goodnight," like all the nights before, and mean it, too, once again, because forgiveness is hard enough without being cast aside like an empty bottle of Monarch gin.
Whisper, too, the words you don't yet believe, but know, somewhere, somehow, you should. Whisper them faintly, when the lights are off, and the contacts are out, and the bed turned down, and everything else is still and silent. Whisper them to the train tracks, to the piano melodies, to the tears you still know will come. Whisper them while thinking of the memories, and saturations, and smell of Chicago in the morning. Whisper them without regret.
"I forgive you, Sean."
Posted by Sean at June 13, 2004 03:41 AM