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I used to think forgiveness happened over coffee

Eyes holding a steady gaze toward the ones across from you - the ones darting from fingernails to mug maybe, downcast maybe, brimming with shame and penitence maybe.

I used to think forgiveness arrived with syntax

carefully assembled,

a sequence of I was wrongs

intoned from a bowed head on top of slumped shoulders maybe.

And when a voice comes from that bowed head, it’s trembling maybe. It’s explaining. It’s making excuses but admitting they are not good enough maybe.

I used to think forgiveness sprung up like fire poppies

A seed that lays dormant until the wildfire of an

(ideally tear-filled)

“I’m sorry” provokes its bloom;

an effect that can’t exist without its cause;

a paragon reply to the emotionally impoverished at the off-ramp,

you tossing absolution like spare change into their open hands.

But now I know

forgiveness can sometimes be a strange thought

maybe

while driving down Their Middle Name Avenue past identical red brick houses.

You might think,

“If you died, I’d want to go to your funeral”

And you might realize

the street sign emblazoned with Their Middle Name does not make your bones burn hot with anger anymore.

Instead it incites a surprising sadness

that if you went to that hypothetical funeral, no one would notice that you were there.

No one would send flowers to your home or leave a casserole in your fridge

because maybe you were in love once, but now they are just a middle name on a street sign.

Now they are someone you can’t even forgive over coffee.

Now they are the past and you are driving down Their Middle Name squarely in the present

and in spite of the fact that no sorry ever came and probably never will, you know you’ve done it

when you turn the corner maybe, and you see bitterness fly out of your open window like a scarf in the breeze. You watch it tangle itself around that street sign for a moment before it dematerializes into the trees maybe.

You keep driving down this other road maybe

and you know you’ve done it, without the coffee or the words or the wildfire, with only a strange thought.

“Strange Thought” out wherever you stream music

  • forgiveness without coffee

    I used to think forgiveness happened over coffee

    Eyes holding a steady gaze toward the ones across from you - the ones darting from fingernails to mug maybe, downcast maybe, brimming with shame and penitence maybe.

    I used to think forgiveness arrived with syntax

    carefully assembled,

    a sequence of I was wrongs

    intoned from a bowed head on top of slumped shoulders maybe.

    And when a voice comes from that bowed head, it’s trembling maybe. It’s explaining. It’s making excuses but admitting they are not good enough maybe.

    I used to think forgiveness sprung up like fire poppies

    A seed that lays dormant until the wildfire of an

    (ideally tear-filled)

    “I’m sorry” provokes its bloom;

    an effect that can’t exist without its cause;

    a paragon reply to the emotionally impoverished at the off-ramp,

    you tossing absolution like spare change into their open hands.

    But now I know

    forgiveness can sometimes be a strange thought

    maybe

    while driving down Their Middle Name Avenue past identical red brick houses.

    You might think,

    “If you died, I’d want to go to your funeral”

    And you might realize

    the street sign emblazoned with Their Middle Name does not make your bones burn hot with anger anymore.

    Instead it incites a surprising sadness

    that if you went to that hypothetical funeral, no one would notice that you were there.

    No one would send flowers to your home or leave a casserole in your fridge

    because maybe you were in love once, but now they are just a middle name on a street sign.

    Now they are someone you can’t even forgive over coffee.

    Now they are the past and you are driving down Their Middle Name squarely in the present

    and in spite of the fact that no sorry ever came and probably never will, you know you’ve done it

    when you turn the corner maybe, and you see bitterness fly out of your open window like a scarf in the breeze. You watch it tangle itself around that street sign for a moment before it dematerializes into the trees maybe.

    You keep driving down this other road maybe

    and you know you’ve done it, without the coffee or the words or the wildfire, with only a strange thought.

    “Strange Thought” out wherever you stream music

    https://www.jordynshellhart.com/news/forgiveness-without-coffee-1036
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