As you and I sit together, I attempt to listen, to really
listen. I try to smile at all the right places and to nod, affirming that I am
interested and present, present with you , present for you. I throw in the
occasional, “Uh-huh” followed by a few “Really?s” and I think I have you
convinced. I am in. I am with you, in for what you want to do, where you want
to go; but I am not in, not really.
You see, there is this thing, this thing I once did. Way
back when, before you and I ever got to know one another. And then there was
this other time that I promised you, but I broke my promise. It wasn’t the only
time. I break my promises a lot. I just am really good at covering up the
reality that I never really mean what I say, justifying why I just can’t come
through because I have a really good excuse. There was another time when I was
unfaithful to you. I don’t think anyone knows about that, but I do. I could go
on, listing this time and that time, this thing and that thing, which I once
did. You see there is this thing, this thing I once did. That was then, but
this is now. Now I sit with you, listening, attempting to listen as you invite
me on a new adventure. You have plans, really big plans. Your ability to dream
always amazes me. But, there is this thing, this thing I once did.
You pause. At first, I think you are just catching your
breath, but then I realize you are waiting for me to respond. I want to look
you in the eye, but all I can do is look down at my coffee. I feel your eyes
penetrating my chest. What are you looking at? I attempt to put on a look that
says I am pondering what you have just said, but all I can think about is this
thing, this thing I once did. I can’t speak because if I did my answer would
have nothing to do with what you have asked, and so I remain silent. You are
kind as you wait. You are always kind when I am slow to respond. I wonder how
many times you have waited like this. I have lost count and you never seem to
bring it up.
I like your plan. I really do. It doesn’t sound easy. There
is a good bit you are asking of me. Actually, there is a good bit you would be
entrusting to me and that is what makes me hesitate. You see, there is this
thing, this thing I once did. I want you to trust me, but I don’t trust myself,
not with what you are asking of me because of that thing, that thing I once
did. What would you say if you knew, knew that there was this thing, this thing
I once did?
I run through the different scenarios in my head. I think of
coming clean, of feigning a sudden illness, of an excuse which I have not
possibly used. My mind races as I think, as we sit. Finally, you break the
silence. You reach across the table and take my coffee-filled hands in yours. I
feel your warmth. My hands are always so cold, but yours, yours are always so
warm. You lean in close so that only I can hear and you say, “I know about that
thing, that thing you once did.” A tear falls. I try to draw back but you hold
tight. “I know about that thing, and I have something to say about it.” I brace
for the impact. You have every right to withdraw your offer, to tell everyone
within ear shout of my betrayal, my failing, my thing which I once did. I steel
myself for the shame which I most certainly deserve, but all I hear you say is
“Let it go, and follow me.”
A fellow traveler,
Blake
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