Letters of apology for the Spring

Today, I want to apologize for lots of things.
Mother hands me a fistful of red apple slices and asks me if I’ve taken my medicine.
I’d like to start at a place where I was free: from being riddled with jealousy at the very thought of you and me not being youandme anymore.
The apples taste grievous- like dishwater and mirth. I bite into them a little harder, soothe the sting I have caused with my own mouth onto yours.
In the summer of 2016, I wrote a letter, a departing freewill thank you note – for you: being an offering of grace to me.
Sunlight is integral to the growth of the human body.
I sit by the porch swing on Wednesdays and at three-forty-seven p.m., I dip my hands into the soil and sieve the earth of its impurity.
Love is a force field in the garden. I am alone. This was not always the case.
Today, I want to apologize for lots of things.
The skies are wilting with forgiveness, the clouds writhe under my tongue.
I am sorry. I am trying.
This is a start and the birch trees weep with the fires.
When I hold your knees to my chest, know this.

Picture by Daria Nepriakhina (Unsplash)

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