South of Forgiveness

the tree of life in the paradise of Kirstenbosch was planted there in the winter of 1996, when Tom and I first met.

Now I was teary and on the verge of bursting into laughter. I imagined the credits smoothly appearing at the bottom of the screen.

I refrained from turning around. I wanted to honor how complete we have made it all, and nothing felt left to be done. It did feel good to be moving forward.

Coffee. Now. Can we make it intravenous, please?

Inside me is a void. The jars that used to be full of unspoken words are now empty.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ are my last words to Tom Stranger.
‘I won’t. Goodbye, Thordis.’
‘Goodbye.’

Like every other turn and twist this week, I knew it would result in growth and healing.

‘I realize I’ve never said “I forgive you” to your face, but I do. I forgive you, Tom.’

‘You don’t know how many times I’ve written paragraphs and deleted them.’

‘Forgive me, Thordis, it wasn’t right to say such things to you.’
‘I already have, Tom.’
In more ways than you know.