Working out ways to express a whole host of lessons and experiences.
“You have to forgive and forget,” Claire ejaculated. Her straight, dark hair shimmered as she punctuated her words with vigorous bobs of her head. “Besides, I’ve been really nice to you all summer. You know you can tell me.”
“What?” It was a surprised squeak. “Every time I drop my guard, you betray and attack me.”
“Me?” her voice screeched. “Attack? Betray? When?”
“All the time,” I told her. “The night you pulled a lock of my hair out and pretended you were asleep. The Christmases and birthdays when you so very, kindly tell your father that you have a beautiful dress for me and give me one of your dirty, cast-off rags. The time you threw a glass at me, broke the window, and blamed me for it because I ducked. The times you promised to keep a secret and then went and told your father. You attack and betray me all the time.”
“You’re just touchy,” she pouted at me. “You take things so personally.”
“Look at my leg!” I showed her the dime-sized wound on the back of my right calf. “Two days ago you pinched a chunk out of me right there,” I jabbed at the spot. “And when I threatened to tell, you said, ‘You don’t count. You’re adopted anyway.'”
“You are,” Claire solemnly replied as if that was sufficient excuse.
“That doesn’t give you the right to hurt me,” my voice was fierce; my small fists clenched in tight balls.
“Daddy should never have brought you here,” Claire insisted.
“But you’d never tell him that, would you?” She took a step back. My eyes narrowed until my near-sighted, impression of Claire sharpened. “So what…? You take it out on me instead?”
I shook my head. “I may forgive you.” The volume of my voice raised so that its sound reverberated around the glass walls of the breakfast nook, “I pray to God to forgive you.”
Lord? Do I really want to forgive her?
“But I’ll never again be stupid enough to forget.”
On Friday (and occasionally Saturday if Friday is filled with an excess of other activities),100s of bloggers set a timer, write for 5 minutes, and then post the results over at Kate Motaung’s blog, Heading Home. She provides the prompt on Thursday evening. We don’t edit or concern ourselves with whether our writing is flawless or worthy to be seen. We expose our incomplete, unpolished thoughts and words to each other and our readers and tweet them with the hashtag #FMFParty. Join us.