The Slate

There is a level of forgiveness that ranks high above all others.
To compartmentalize the years of offences, to pick and to choose those that hurt the most, which to hold on to…
Which not to forget.
Not many have been forgotten, just
Let go.
As best as could be managed.
There is a level of hurtfulness that ranks high above all others.
That which an apology can mend, but cannot wipe from the slate.
A slate tarnished and dented and stained from years of living, polished time and time again with love and tears.
A slate in the tiled kitchens of our youths,
A slate between the caulking of the bathroom walls that saw many moments of anticipation,
A slate on the pathway to the household full of memories,
One that fit in every room, every heartfelt second and every life within it.

A curious metaphor for a forgotten building block of a lifetime.
Which sometimes I resented and sometimes I adored.