I often wonder why I occasionally breeze through the webpages of people (I say) I hope I never have to see again in life. There’s something really masochistic about doing that. I invariably upset myself. I want some confirmation that they are unworthy of my friendship, and that must be why we are no longer friends. Instead, I leave feeling like a defective human being systematically recycled out of circles of friends. Because invariably, I instead get confirmation that everyone else forgives, moves on, rebuilds, c’est la vie, toute la morte, picnics, albums, sprays of cocktail, the insistent yellow glow of street lamps that ooze down milwaukee, north ave. I seem to be the only one glued in the mire of past hurt.

He said to me a few weeks ago, “Have you ever really forgiven anyone for anything?”

And we were arguing, so I didn’t let him know how deeply that affected me. But I’ve been asking myself ever since, have I? I forgive my father everything, but he’s never done anything that really hurt. Not really. Everyone else…I don’t know. What is this thing, forgiveness? A maraschino cherry? Ripped fishnet stockings? Ravens…

I’ve come to the conclusion that it has something to do with love and healing. And that before I can learn to forgive, everything can’t hurt so much. You can’t be a minefield of open wound and ripped flesh 6 months, 2 years, 8 years old.

It’s all more than I can think about right now, but I have the funny sense that my basic foundational happiness is central to figuring this out. What is forgiveness? A purple Fedora? Sacchrine Faberge?

I miss laughter. I miss scribbles. I miss apples and microphones. I miss climbed fences and Metra trains and long, long bike rides. Decks of cards, random pets, crates of records. I miss swing sets and sloppy blunts and tubs of tequila. I miss being wanted.