Wrapped in blankets, like a child in the womb, my forgiveness spoke.
For it was always questioned and never carefully brought to the surface.
It hung underneath my skin, diving deeper as blood boiled above when pain struck.
Which was frequent – but I dared with courage and sought my own resolution.
Without my forgiveness, the world was forced to understand what it had done, while I continued to understand why it couldn’t be forgave.
Oh, had it hurt me and asked again for my compliance, my efforts, but finally, after time and time of rising from my knees, I smiled and said, “No, I don’t forgive you…and that’s okay.”
And with the wind at my side, I wandered – not aimlessly, not woefully, but with wisdom, with knowing.
I was on my way.
