I was afraid the past would catch up with me, would find this new house too like the scarred old childhood home. But it hasn't yet. A tree casts soft and gentle shade over our green yard. I feel forgiven all the sins I didn't commit for long minutes at a time. What were they? I can't now think of anything wrong with me—I fit in these rooms, can mostly agree to each day. For long minutes I don't even blame my mother for dying, my father for spending years in bed. My little traumas are just souvenirs of other lives, of places I might have once visited. I'm mostly a father here, a husband, barely a son. The big sun rises early here, as I do, with everyone. Copyright © 2016 Craig Morgan Teicher. Used with permission of the author. |
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