Stone Soup

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I forgot that you are just as imperfect as I am.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I deleted all the nice things you said to me because I was angry and hurt.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I swept away everything that was sweet and tender and kept only the things that showed your hypocrisy.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I clutched on to every terrible thing you ever said to me, when you were likely too frustrated and tired to still be arguing, and kept it all as evidence against you.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry it is so much easier for me to believe the awful things you told me about myself than the good ones.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry because now that you are gone, all I am left with are your faults, immortalized in times roman numeral and etched into a permanent echo in my ear dream.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I can’t remember exactly the way you described the color of my hair in the sunshine or the smell of my skin.

I wish I could recite your love back to myself because I can no longer read your sweetness. I tore those notes into tiny pieces, and it has become a distant and barely audible melody.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I wiped away all the sweet and tender words you gifted me because what remains are the bitter, hard, imperfect pieces of you, scrapping against each other like stones in my pockets…

When I’m grocery shopping, I intentionally buy the little misshapen bell peppers because I know no one else will, and I empathize with them. I buy tomatoes with vine marks and squash with lumpy, bumpy, scabby, skin. I worry they will go unnoticed and unappreciated, so I rescue the misfit produce. I take them home and transform them into soup, salad and stir-fry. And I love them. I love them for all of the people who ignored them. I love them for being more work but often better tasting. I love them for being seconds.

I wish I would not have deleted the sweet and perfect things you wrote me, but I did. I foolishly threw them away, and all I have left are these oddly shaped, rough skinned, lumpy, bumpy, imperfect pieces of you: words you said and quite possibly didn’t mean, ways in which you failed me, lied to me, disrespected me, etc.

I am sorry, but it doesn’t change that this is what I have. This is what I chose to keep. The only thing left to do is to pick up these stones in my pockets like a bunch of misfit produce at the grocery store and learn to love them. Love them for being imperfect and unwanted. Love them more for all the people who didn’t or couldn’t. Love them for the cold and jagged pieces of me other people have in their pockets. Love them. Just love them. And then, make them into soup and salad and stir-fry.


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