Monday, December 10, 2012

I forgive you, Wounded Bird



I forgive you for not being who I wanted you to be.

"I feel so useless," you said.
"I wish I were more useful," you said.

Until my friend suggested you volunteer at the school across the street and you shook your head, "But I don't want to do that."

"What can I do to help you?" you kept asking me. "You are so busy all the time."

"What would you like to do?"

"I would like to get up and just do!"

"Yes," I said, "that would be great."  Then you would change the topic.

"What can I do to help you?" you would ask again the next day.

"What do you think you can do?  What do you feel like doing?"

"Oh, I can't do anything." And you would change the topic.

"What can I do to help you?" you asked the next day.

Until I said the best thing would just be working at getting your strength back.  I was imagining a kind of inching day-by-day recovery, a foot at a time, a little further today than yesterday  But the next day you sent yourself all the way out to the street without your walker where you were stranded until a neighbor rescued you and carried you back home.

I forgive the gleam of glee when you told us how it happened, how impossible -- see? -- it would be to ever recover, how you had tried but sadly and not surprisingly it had been beyond you.

I don't understand you.

I'm afraid to see myself in you.

I forgive you for not being who I want to be.






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