Written for Thursday Inspiration #300 –
“All Out Of Love” and for RDP FRIDAY!
RETURN! Here’s my contribution.
Tag: Forgiveness
I’m Sorry: A Dectina Refrain
Written for Sadje’s What Do You See #232
I’m
sorry
for the things
I said and did.
There’s no greater pain
than brothers grown apart.
How I have prayed for this day
when we put our anger to rest
and cried “I love you, my dear brother”.
I’m sorry for the things I said and did.
NAR©2024
#WDYS
This is “I’m Sorry” by John Denver
Dectina Refrain:
This poem is written as follows:
1st line – 1 syllable, 2nd line – 2 syllables
3rd line – 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines;
the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines
and is a stand-alone 10-syllable line.
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
BARREN HEART
February 27, 2003
To my daughter:
If you are reading this, I am no longer with you. There’s so much I wanted to tell you when I was alive, so many things I needed to explain but the words failed me. Now I find myself in the early stages of dementia and know this is my last chance to say the words you needed to hear.
You know my life was not an easy one and I learned at an early age to keep my emotions in check. I was always the practical one, keeping everyone and everything in line and doing my duty for the family. If you think I did not realize you cared for your father more than me, you are mistaken. Your father was a weak man and a bit of a buffoon. I was the one who was in charge of the household finances; left in your father’s hands, we would have ended up in the poor house. I was the one who pushed him into getting a job with the postal system; honestly, how can anyone expect to make a proper living as a barber? I know you enjoyed the “fun” times with your father but that just wasn’t reality.
You may have felt that I was stern with you and not a simpering, doting mother; perhaps I was harsh but that’s the only way to raise young girls to become strong women. I never had a care or worried about you because you were the defiant and rebellious daughter, unlike your sister who is too much like me. I think I always knew you would become your own woman and nothing like me. Having seen you with your own children, I know I’m right.
Please know I did the best I could. I did love you even though I never could bring myself to say it. I hope you know that.
Your Mother
August 18, 2009
To my mother:
I’m writing this letter knowing it will never be sent. You’re gone now so who is there to send it to? But some words need to be said.
It was rough growing up thinking I was unloved by you and there were times I hated you for that. For a long time I thought it was something I had done. I’ve learned it was something you couldn’t do – let your guard down and show me love.
My teens years were the turning point for me because I got out of the house and away from you. You know my mother-in-law was a very different type of woman; warm and kind, we formed a bond and I found in her the mother’s love I desperately needed.
How I resented you and your aloofness! What a shame … so many years wasted. Now as I look back I feel sorry for you. Deep down I believe you loved me; you were just too afraid to show it. I’m living a good life, Mother. I have a loving family and we’re not embarrassed or afraid to say “I love you”.
You’re wrong about Dad; I didn’t care for him more than you. I loved him and he adored me even though you kept him on a short leash and told him it was unmanly for a father to fawn over his daughter.
I’m happy to say I’m nothing like you. I hope you can rest in peace, Mother. I will not spend the rest of my life wondering about what might have been.
Your daughter
NAR © 2018
WHITE COLLAR JOB
Monastic Gregorian chant serenely filled the empty church. Candles flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. A sliver of the moon was barely perceptible through the rose-colored window above the crucifix. It was very late but the church was never locked as troubled souls sought comfort and refuge regardless of the hour.
A solitary man sat huddled in the corner of a pew, thinking, praying, contemplating his next move. Occasionally his eyes would glance at the little round light above the confessional door indicating that a priest was available to listen, to advise, to absolve.
Rubbing his chafed neck, the man stared at his Roman collar now resting on the pew next to him. How many years had it been since his ordination? How many baptisms had he performed, weddings had he celebrated, funerals had he officiated? More than he could count.
He was a good priest; some might even say excellent. Not perfect by any stretch, but the rights certainly outweighed the wrongs. All except THIS wrong.
He was no thief, no murderer. No one knew his secret so who was he hurting? He asked himself that question endless times, always able to justify his actions. Even Jesus said that the sins of the flesh were the easiest to forgive.
It was so natural, so easy. He was happiest when he was with her and yet it was killing him. This wrong which felt so right was eating him alive.
They were friends and saw each other every day at Holy Rosary Hospital. She was not only an outstanding nurse; she possessed an amazing ability to calm the fears of the dying and console the grief-stricken. They told themselves they were drawn together by their mutual empathy for the suffering, which was true at first. Now the unthinkable had happened. They were lovers, adulterers…..for he was married to the church and she was married to his best friend.
He knew the two choices before him…..confess his sins, beg forgiveness and give her up or go on living a lie and continue their affair. Whatever his decision, the toll would be unbearable.
Making the sign of the cross, he rose and slowly walked toward the confessional. Steeling himself, he reached out for the handle of the confessional booth. At that exact moment, the light switched off.
Head hanging, tears falling, he turned and disappeared into the night.
NAR © 2017
The Elephant's Trunk 