“Hellooooooooo, Mrs. N—,” you used to say, in a false British accent, I think to make fun of that author I read, and you don’t like.
I finished reading that book. It went a lot like I thought it would; if those girls in the book were me and you, I died a slow boring death and you lived a slow dull life.
I wish I could ask you to read it. I wish I could ask you that one last thing, because you are the only one who would understand how like us they are. Their story was so different, but in some ways it was so the same as us too. Actually, they were so the same that when the one that was me thought, I thought it was me thinking and her stealing my thoughts.
But they weren’t even her thoughts, just those of some woman I never met, who wrote a book that captures what people think in times like these. So we must be very run of the mill, I guess, or Morrison was a psychic and knew I would be this someday. She knew more than I did.
I won’t go over it part by part and anyway, you and I know both know our parts. And neither of us feels any real guilt or remorse, but we are both sorry. Because that first stuff is not the same as being sorry, is it?
Sula was surprised that Nel reacted the way any one else would have. At first, I couldn’t believe that you could hate me forever. Even now there are times that the part of me that needs my heart to keep beating doesn’t believe you will hate me forever. You have even said you wouldn’t yourself, remember? I don’t fit in any box? How odd that those should be the last words you say to me.
Sula asked Nel how she knew who was that bad one, and later Nel remembered the guilt for things they had always shared, the things they had always done together. Did you forget five years of things that were not mine? Have you forgotten all the things you whispered to me? Have you forgotten I know exactly who you are? I loved you anyway.
Of all the ugly things you said, the insane threats you made, the names you sat with people you didn’t even like and encouraged them to call me... of all the things you spat out, the words that cut the deepest were these: “You were my best friend, my chosen sister.”
And Sula said to Nel, “Well, if we were such good friends, why can’t you get over it?”
How long does it take you to forgive the ones you need to keep, even if they owe you more in the first place? How long did it take you to forgive yourself for all those years and all those times?
And really, how long did it take to make me a ghost? Not long really, because I mattered the least. I was needed the least, and now…well I am not really useful at all, and you said yourself once: if they are not useful, you cast a friend aside.
It’s pointless anyway. I am mud slime at best; I can’t look you in the eye and say I am not. So, what difference to me does it make that you are made of the same gunk as I?
I have nothing to lament. Mourning is for something lost, and how can I lose something I never really had? And from that, take a lesson yourself. Don’t you dare accuse me of being the destroyer of something you have been stomping on for years!
When you hear my name, or when we have to pass each other, you will cringe and groan. I will smile. Our reasons will be the same, because we know you have written the story and read it to every one else your way. Even in your mind you have the facts set how you want them, and you have chucked out the ones that don’t support your conclusion. But seeing me is a reminder that there is another truth. And if you ever had to talk to me, really, really talk to me, you would have to face it.
So, I suppose I will leave you to your forgetting.
In my best British: “Gooooooooooood Bye, Mrs. R—!”
I finished reading that book. It went a lot like I thought it would; if those girls in the book were me and you, I died a slow boring death and you lived a slow dull life.
I wish I could ask you to read it. I wish I could ask you that one last thing, because you are the only one who would understand how like us they are. Their story was so different, but in some ways it was so the same as us too. Actually, they were so the same that when the one that was me thought, I thought it was me thinking and her stealing my thoughts.
But they weren’t even her thoughts, just those of some woman I never met, who wrote a book that captures what people think in times like these. So we must be very run of the mill, I guess, or Morrison was a psychic and knew I would be this someday. She knew more than I did.
I won’t go over it part by part and anyway, you and I know both know our parts. And neither of us feels any real guilt or remorse, but we are both sorry. Because that first stuff is not the same as being sorry, is it?
Sula was surprised that Nel reacted the way any one else would have. At first, I couldn’t believe that you could hate me forever. Even now there are times that the part of me that needs my heart to keep beating doesn’t believe you will hate me forever. You have even said you wouldn’t yourself, remember? I don’t fit in any box? How odd that those should be the last words you say to me.
Sula asked Nel how she knew who was that bad one, and later Nel remembered the guilt for things they had always shared, the things they had always done together. Did you forget five years of things that were not mine? Have you forgotten all the things you whispered to me? Have you forgotten I know exactly who you are? I loved you anyway.
Of all the ugly things you said, the insane threats you made, the names you sat with people you didn’t even like and encouraged them to call me... of all the things you spat out, the words that cut the deepest were these: “You were my best friend, my chosen sister.”
And Sula said to Nel, “Well, if we were such good friends, why can’t you get over it?”
How long does it take you to forgive the ones you need to keep, even if they owe you more in the first place? How long did it take you to forgive yourself for all those years and all those times?
And really, how long did it take to make me a ghost? Not long really, because I mattered the least. I was needed the least, and now…well I am not really useful at all, and you said yourself once: if they are not useful, you cast a friend aside.
It’s pointless anyway. I am mud slime at best; I can’t look you in the eye and say I am not. So, what difference to me does it make that you are made of the same gunk as I?
I have nothing to lament. Mourning is for something lost, and how can I lose something I never really had? And from that, take a lesson yourself. Don’t you dare accuse me of being the destroyer of something you have been stomping on for years!
When you hear my name, or when we have to pass each other, you will cringe and groan. I will smile. Our reasons will be the same, because we know you have written the story and read it to every one else your way. Even in your mind you have the facts set how you want them, and you have chucked out the ones that don’t support your conclusion. But seeing me is a reminder that there is another truth. And if you ever had to talk to me, really, really talk to me, you would have to face it.
So, I suppose I will leave you to your forgetting.
In my best British: “Gooooooooooood Bye, Mrs. R—!”
4 comments:
I wondered and wondered who this was to. . . and then something you said suddenly clicked and I knew (and of course, the rest made it much more solid an idea).
I am glad you are able to get some of this out of your system. I wish that it didn't carry so much pain for you.
Don't be mistaken.
I don't masquerade truths inside my head. Some truths are too obvious to be dressed as something else and I don't need to be in front of you to see them.
I know that I initiated the course of events that would ultimately result in what we are now.
I am sorry about my actions (especially about the stomping I did for years).
I hope you know my threats were empty and maningless. I said them only because I was hurt.
I know you don't need my forgiveness but you are forgiven. You always were.
I simply wish you wouldn't have gone behind my back.
About getting over it, I wish I could tell you when and if I ever will.
The thing is that while it appears that I'm mad at you, I'm solely disappointed on myself.
My cringes, groans, tears and absences are not for you; they're for me.
I don't know when it happened but I turned into my worst enemy.
I have not forgotten you, nor what we had.I do mourn the loss of it.
The undeniable fact is that you and I grabbed our friendship by the neck and squeezed. I supposed it doesn't really matter who squeezed harder.
In any case, I stand by what I said: You were my chosen sister. You still are.
I'm almost courious how you would respond to that one.
I don’t think any response is needed (or wanted). I think the analogy about the neck choking of the friendship was pretty good. I will miss the way she rocked the analogies.
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