SUNSHINE AURA – poetry. short stories. community.

You could have written me any

Of the 364 other days this year.

Picked any Tuesday afternoon,

Or Sunday morning

When I imagine the old guilt returns,

Etched into your hands and knees

From years in the pews.

You could have dropped a line

On a Friday morning,

The light and air fresh

Humming with excitement

For another weekend finally here.

But you chose to

Pick up the pen and write

On a Wednesday night

When the turning of the earth

Marked the end of my annual march

On the long road.

You wrote one – maybe even two –

Lines to wish me well

Then used the rest to describe the hell

You are currently living in.

A hell designed by the rot in your mind

A fate nobody could spare you

Except for yourself.

Whenever you do this,

You use the most visceral imagery

Of all your misery

Trying to get to me.

Well —

Congrats, because it works.

Hearing you are hurt makes me hurt

But I can’t save you from the dirt.

And we can’t rewind to the past

And frankly, I don’t wish to go back.

You wrote me you hope one day

I realize all you’ve done

For me, for the family.

I already know what you’ve done

And I’m sure you won’t agree,

But you’re poor choices and abandonment

Led me to the best version of me.

The man who was meant to

Make me feel safe

Left me alone to wander —

To wonder.

They say we all grow up to be

The person we needed as kids.

And damn – ain’t that the truth?

When I look back

I grew to be the best version of you.

When you used to be kind

When you actually cared

Before the drugs and disease

Riddled your mind bare.

When hard work meant success

And waking up each day with purpose.

I mourn what could have been

And I know you’re still here

Just a letter away.

But you’ll never listen,

Nor understand.

I’ve tried to explain.

Every hurt, every word,

Every look like I’d ruined your life.

I can’t forget all of that

Certainly not overnight.

If I tried to speak

Would you even listen?

God – I remember a night

When I laid out the capital “T” truth

You sputtered and you stammered

Like I was weaving a fiction.

As if I were telling a story

I wrote up on that little typewriter

At your office I loved as a kid.

Rather than telling you the oral history

Of you and me.

Of your mistakes and follies.

I was only a teenager then.

I don’t remember what you said

But I remember how you made me feel.

Worthless and as if I were a liar

An inconvenience holding you back

From being truly happy.

As if all your problems in life

Started the moment I took a breath —

Inhaling the riches of the earth

I was meant to inherit.

And here I was – and apparently still am –

The source of your ruin.

You’ll never, ever, ever take a good look

In the mirror.

Instead, you’ll write me a letter.

You’ll check the date on your calendar

And see that it’s my birthday.

A date when your life began

Its downhill descent.

You’ll write to me your pain

Your tragedy

Shakespearean in its dark comedy

That all would have been okay

If only you’d opened your eyes

And seen the truth sooner.

With this latest note

I fear you’ll never see.

You put the weight of your world

On my shoulders

When I was so young.

Forced me to grow too fast.

Forced me to be cognizant

That the world isn’t a fair place.

And you were so, so close

To making me believe

That I was nothing and nobody

Not worthy of anything.

Just a selfish little being.

You have to love someone first

To be able to hate them.

And even in the face of all this hurt,

I still don’t hate you.

I’ve become rather indifferent

Going through most days

Forgetting your existence.

But each year you never fail

To send me a note like this.

Reminding me you are here.

And each year

I have to remind myself

That I’ve already done my time.

I’ve already walked the blazing path

The fires of hell at my back

Begging me to stay

To feel the warmth of their glow.

Seducing me to let the flames in

Let the misery and pain take over.

Sit down, stay a while,

And better yet, chain my wrist

To the stone wall.

But I’m not going back there.

I see you.

And I feel for you – truly, I do.

But I can’t go back —

I won’t go back.

And so I trade the fire down there

For the flame of a match

Alight between my fingers.

I burn your letter

I won’t let its words tether

My heart back to you.

I’m sorry. Really, I am.