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Let me talk of forgiveness.
Not the touchy-feely kind;
plastic smile, insincere hug, hard eyes.
I’m talking about pain and anger that resides so deep;
that seethes and slivers through every breath, every waking moment,
every thought; that stalks and ravages the troubled sleep.
The terror and anger that constricts each breath,
each threatening tear drop; that stops just short
of the voice from calling, screaming out, “Stop! Enough!”
Let’s talk of the love between a father and a son,
the kind that is supposed to be unconditional;
to last a life time.
A son, who is disturbed, medically diagnosed,
has threatened, manipulated and assaulted;
a step away from arrest.
He came to visit, the other night unannounced:
my partner was not happy, I pointed to a table outside.
We made a coffee, rolled a smoke,
and sat outside in the cool evening breeze.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?”, I cautiously enquire.
“I just wanted to talk to you, you are my father”
I am. I sat, I listened, looked into his eyes, heard his voice.
There he was: this person I knew as a child, a comforter,
and an angry aggressor, in turn. My, he has grown.
“I will be 25 soon”, he said; “Yes”, I replied.
I looked at him, I listened.Such a lonely, vulnerable soul I saw.
“There are lots of people still very angry with you”,
I said. “Yes, I know. I would do all that I could to change that.”
He asks of his brother, he has not seen for months.
They do not talk. His brother wants nothing to do with him.
I looked at him, I listened.Such a lonely, vulnerable soul I saw.
Like a mirror, did I see me? Twenty five, and lost; lacking direction,
feeling like a bag of … shivers, this is not nice!
I looked at my son; I saw a sad and lonely man.
I thought, “Let me talk of forgiveness:
it is not a luxury, not a whim”, and then,
"No! Let me NOT talk of forgiveness. It’s not enough,
not enough for him, not enough for me."
The verbs are active! Listen! Accept! Forgive!
Do it! Make it so. It’s all aspirational!
I’m working on it, bit by bit,
learning when to bend, when to stand firm.
The hard truth is, I’m angry: with him, myself;
I empathise with what I imagine he is going through.
I can’t separate the “him” from “me”
Les Bush
1 April 2013
Tagged in les bush