An Apology for Forgiveness' Close Association with Cowardice

An Apology for Forgiveness' Close Association with Cowardice Thylias Moss Every day soon after rising, I'm reminded of forgiveness, its subtle and profound forms. Once, its proximity shocked me, but no longer, as more and more becomes forgivable and I become quieter within myself. My rages fizzle leaving me impressed with the mist oftheir residue, the honest beauty of their fading, honest in admitting they too (or they especiaUy) cannot last. Certainly cannot last in this day's undemanding first hours. My husband stiU sleeps beside me, the end of sleep, his breathing quieter; usuaUy he wakes first and I miss this beauty, also honest, of him unwashed. Beauty that grudge wouldn't let me see in muscles whose temptation I forgive as I lean to smeU and touch them. My sons are in their bedroom down the hall; I hear faintly from their radio the periodic reach ofvioUns in some classical piece I don't hear enough of to try to name, high notes stretching like Ught to wake my ears—I'm surrounded by so much that pleases that I'm no longer interested in smaU lies my son told yesterday, no longer interested in the doUar a cashier wrongfuUy pocketed when I purchased something I didn't need anyway. Cashier, son are forgiven, and the fabric ofmy pleasure in day beginning as blessed as possible is not snagged or threatened—as if I don't Uve in a world of malice and aggression. But because I do, this moment becomes more useful. And maybe for wanting more such moments, I forgive what would destroy them if my own rage flared into accomplice. Besides, retaliation doesn't undo whatever might spur me into retaUating. I can rage at death aU I want and still won't be able to buUy death into releasing lost loved ones, especiaUy two babies, and my father. To rescue me from rage, forgiveness arrives, in the past not soon enough to spare me from emotional and psychological trenches almost madnesses, but it arrived and restored weU-being, and today has a companion, some selfishness which I forgive , some self-interest that is authentic and human and therefore forgivable, and with which I rush to the refrigerator to seize the last ofsomething I saw 94 Thylias Moss95 late last night—stepping into the garage to secredy drink it too fast to enjoy it or know for sure that I'm drinking it, thereby denying aU the more reasonably that I drank it. Ifcaught, perhaps I'U stage somnambulance in which my sleeping selfhas its own uncontroUable so necessarily forgivable thirst for what my wakeful self remembers to pubUcly reject and gag on when again the beverage is replenished, proving my disUkejust so I can be held blameless for drinking the last of mango-mango. Even if indeed I do accuse one of my sons or my husband ofdrinking and denying, when the truth emerges, they'U forgive me this selfish imbibing. They'U drink alternatives and find thirst slaked just as weU. It soon enough won't matter; even before we're dressed and heading in different directions, too far from each other to possibly provoke minor conflicts that can seem to dominate our days, and that we suppress when gathering for the evening meal, each claiming, truthfully, to have had an ultimately pleasing day, forgiving whatever bothered us so temporar- üy at school and work, forgiving and forgetting the trivial easüy. How refreshing mango-mango is, and even more so for the sneaking that remains as much a flavor-enhancer as it was when I was a teenager sneaking to seeWesley. It helped that in grade school looking through the microscope and seeing what wasn't supposed to be seen, I reasoned, because the ceUs' size was meant to approximate invisibihty, was a form of sneaking I'd already practiced. I looked as often as I could, understanding without articulating it that ifthe pursuit was some kind of edification ofmind, anything became acceptable so could be forgiven. My Ups stiU wet with juice, I transfer sheen to Wesley's Ups. It's good being back in bed with him, the place...