I hadn't expected to see his image
on Facebook last night.
Or to read about his cross country trips,
his wife,
his wonderful life,
how everything is going so well.
I had only intended to see some photographs
of my granddaughter
born one month ago.
But instead I saw
his face, now middle-aged
with grey hair, like mine.
I once loved this man.
Had a child with him,
who became the father of
my granddaughter.
What is it that keeps me transfixed
in front of the screen,
where I see Ron's body looming large,
his once slender form now bloated
from too many beers,
and years
of rich food, and
living large.
I thought back to that day when our son
was one month old,
and Ron told me:
"well, it looks like we'll be raising him
from separate households."
No. I couldn't imagine raising a child alone.
But that is what happened.
This was the man who told me during
my pregnancy that I looked fat,
and that he just wasn't attracted to fat people.
Oh, the pain
of that and so many other insults as well.
like his indifference and coldness.
I had already forgiven Rod once, over
ten years ago.
So why do I cringe when
I see him now?
It's only a photograph.
And what happened was so
long ago.
I go to
to the Archbishop.
"Forgive often and completely.
No matter what's been done to you,"
he advises.
I know I must,
I must forgive, not now, but soon.
I must see the humanity in his eyes,
and understand that he, too,
cried.
So forgive I must.
It is required, if I want to remain
inspired.
And if I want to go on living.
How many times?
Seventy times seven?
(But I can't forget!)
It doesn't matter, you must go on
forgiving.
The unforgiveness is only
hurting you.
And I try to forgive
in order to set him free,
and to heal myself.
(But he left me without
a phone, or money, or transportation. My
baby was sick and I had no way to call, or
to get him to a doctor.)
But I did it. I raised a son who is now a man
and a father and a husband.
A son who is close to me and caring.
I feel the pain of that time and fear rises.
The Archbishop tells me:
These feelings are not your enemy.
They are your teacher.
I decide to call Ron and tell him
how seeing his photograph brought up painful memories.
(But what if he insults me? Or blames me?)
I follow the Archbishop's advice:
Imagine Ron as a baby, innocent, before he hurt you.
Think of three attributes you admire in him, and of what you need from him.
(An apology. He needs to say he's sorry.)
I call him: 425-844-0323.
I plan to say "don't we have a beautiful granddaughter?"
I get a recorded message from a voice I don't recognize.
I look through databases with his name and find the heading:
DECEASED,
then realize I misspelled his last name.
I locate his address: P. O. Box 710,
Maple Valley, WA 98038.
Then I write the letter,
And decide whether I should send it.
