Let’s say a person cut themselves badly.
Washing a coffee carafe, split the glass.
Hand a little too big.
Hurried down the hall to the medicine chest.
Left a trail of blood behind.
Mate comes hurrying with a cloth.
Mops the floor and complains about the mess.
Stunning moment of clarity.
On holiday with family.
Thousands of miles on the road.
In a long traffic jam.
Suggestion’s made to take a toll road to get out of it.
Dear driver is suddenly angered.
Cuts across four lanes of 80 mph traffic.
Risks them all.
Same holiday, same person.
Has vertigo.
Shies away from window while on a mountain road.
Is ridiculed.
Last time we are taking you on a holiday.
In younger days, they walked together.
A busy street, bright summer day.
An affectionate hand placed upon another’s shoulder.
Pushed away.
Don’t touch me.
A wound remembered.
Corinthians says “Love keeps no record of wrongs”.
You have kept a record of mine, and I of yours.
We all keep mum.
Only silences and sidelong glances.
We have all said I love you.
Maybe all. Is it right?
What I have done, or not done, perhaps has wounded you too.
I have been called many things, some good, some not.
I think on it with lingering sadness.
We are still a family, and look out for each other.
But there are these ghosts remembered.
Please tell me you love me again, sometime before I go,
and forgive me my trespasses.
Beautiful.
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