Self-Forgiveness

9/16/2007

**It seems I wrote this before I discovered what paragraphs were ;) **

Viciously, she attacks the eight legged creature, the arachnid. She doesn’t particularly enjoy rain, but if the superstition holds true and she manages to get her hands on the daddy-long-legs, it was going to pour tomorrow. Well it might not. She wasn’t going to kill it. Just a simple, possibly survivable flush down the toilet, although secretly she hopes not. The dirty deed done, she returns to her meticulously clean kitchen, her one accomplishment in life. Well that and marrying well. Feeling a sudden cold breeze on her arms, she unrolls her sleeve, while walking over to the thermostat to raise the temperature. Dinner. “What should I make for dinner,” she asks out loud, desperate to hear another human voice amidst her large, lonely home. But the only reply is silence. Her eyes fall upon the frame, the only lasting souvenir of their carefree happiness. The laughter, the comfort, the joy, the anticipation, the expectation of creating a family. A real family, not two people in love, ageing rapidly. Ha. That was true irony wasn’t it? Rapidly ageing people and their rapidly ageing love. But kids weren’t a part of their destiny. Her husband had never pryed, had for once trusted her. For that she was thankful, because to give an explanation, that would have been the final act, the ultimate confirmation of.. of.. Well none of that mattered anymore. What was done, was done. Chicken and spinach enchiladas. Her husband’s favorite. Perhaps with a glass of chardonnay or red wine, they really had to start thinking about their health. As an appetizer, perhaps a chilled fruit salad that would aid her body for the battle soon to come, with its plethora of vitamins. How could she have been so stupid? No. Now wasn’t the time. Time was running out; for dinner of course. Her husband would be home within hours and she still had a lot to do. She ambles over to the fruit basket, her hands groping for the ripest fruits for what was going to be the world’s best fruit salad. Some nectarines, oranges, peaches, strawberries from the fridge and grapes. She washes each piece of fruit with ease, lovingly, tenderly, aware that within minutes each will lie in front of her, maimed and mutilated. She imagines them gasping for air, pleading for their life. No. No. They’re fruits, they aren’t alive. Not like her. But soon you won’t be either, a little voice whispers. Miserable, she starts attacking the innocent fruits. Fervently she peels, slices, and chops the fruits to perfection. Breathless she stares at her masterpiece, then begins to rinse and soap the counter down. One dish down, one more to go. She pulls out two cans of mushroom broth, the frozen spinach, and some boneless chicken, stirring it all together in a pot. Some salt and pepper to taste and then ladles the mixture over the enchiladas, stopping only to lick her fingers and savor the smell of the rich aroma emanating from the pot. She then gently places the pan into her preheated gourmet oven and starts the daunting task of cleaning the kitchen yet again. She works tirelessly to a silent rhythm, each measure punctuated with the thud of the dishwasher door, the clatter of pots being put away, or the clanging of spoons. Slowly she pulls off her apron and eases herself onto the couch. Immediately, her hand reaches for the remote control. Control. If only she’d had control that night. Repressing the thought, she mindlessly clicks through the channels, trying to kill time before it kills her. Waiting for her compassionate husband to come home. The silence presses in on her, sending her cryptic accusations which are soon shunned away by the gentle murmur of the garage door as it opens. Relieved, she gets up to set the table, pours out the wine, and then rushes to the door to greet her husband with a kiss. They speak in subdued tones, in the manner of couples comfortable with each other’s presence, forgiving of one another’s flaws. He sits at the table, admiration for the meal seeping through his eyes, exhaling praise instead of air at the end of every bite. Satisfied and without complaint, grateful for his beautiful wife. She stares at his hands. It was the hands she’d fallen in love with. The long skinny fingers, the well-manicured nails, the hands of a man who cares. His hands had been the exact opposite, rough, calloused; maybe that’s what had attracted her. Her husband’s touch was familiar, comforting, and safe. His had been intense, stimulating, filled with promise, adventure, and excitement. But look where it had gotten her. She, who prided herself on her clear logical thinking, had fallen for his charm, his easy chuckle, his need to have fun. That night had been a night of many mistakes. She’d gotten drunk with a stranger, flirted with another man, and then had sex with him, without a condom. If only she’d been fortunate enough to have had her mistake end there. Couldn’t there have been a warning, a fairy godmother, anyone or anything watching over her, waiting to inform her as soon as she’d crossed the line? But this wasn’t a fairy tale and a truly happy ending wasn’t meant to be. She would have been fine if her mistakes had disrupted even ruined her life, but she should have known, mistakes of such magnitude didn’t disappear quietly but left a lasting mark. Hers had marked their marriage, leaving her dream of having a family discolored. As soon as she’d found out she’d contracted AIDS she’d known it was up to her to put an end to her cascade of mistakes. She’d decided that putting an innocent child in the path of AIDS was one mistake too many. She could still remember the agony her story had ignited in her husband’s otherwise calm eyes. She’d expected him to scream, yell, react in some way, if not to her affair then to her announcement that they would never have any children, or at the very least to her declaration that she’d contracted AIDS. But he’d said nothing. He’d just looked at her with shock and excused himself, returning hours later, poised, full of understanding and forgiveness. He’d even willingly shouldered some of the blame, admitted that his business trips took him away from home for longer than he’d expected them to. And not once, had he asked her why or with whom. To him, it was enough that she’d lamented. But his unconditional understanding made it harder for her to forgive herself. So now, as she gazes across the table, her view obstructed by the mirror of guilt, she sees what she wants to. She sees a fragile marriage hastily taped back together instead of a marriage cemented securely in understating, love, and most importantly, forgiveness. Her insecurity forces her to make one last mistake; this one is the most detrimental. And the only person that can provide a solution, offer her forgiveness, exonerate her completely, is her.