I have collected a lot of regrets in 35 years:
A 10 year friendship unraveling.
Exhausting excuses I prioritize.
Never saying “I love you” but never leaving.
Yelling at my grandma.
I don’t believe in “no regrets”. Every time I bury one, it returns in the middle of the night.
I remember the argument with my grandma. She had never seen me so angry. I don’t know why I get so angry. Anger isn’t something I felt much growing up. I was always the little boy that did what he was told. I never rocked the boat. I believed it was always my fault.
But lately, I don’t seem to have the patience anymore.
She was watching the news with my grandpa. It’s always the same, the news. The same fears, the same worries, all tied up in new bows. I’ve always stayed quiet. I’ve always nodded in agreement. But this time I yelled.
I remember her face. The shock in her eyes. How small she looked. Her silence. It was all my fault.
I felt like I murdered something inside her. Maybe her love for me?
Instant regret was all I felt when the anger betrayed me and faded away.
What do I do with this moment? How can I possibly lock it up in my desk drawer, hidden behind forgotten pennies and useless cables I’m too afraid to throw away.
How can I toss it into the river like all those stones and branches I threw in with my Grandma when I was 4.
I wear my regrets like clothes.
Each one a mark upon my life.
But they’re not debts. I can’t possibly let them be debts. Can they just remind me instead?
To hold on to friendships.
to be honest.
To say I love you.
to speak gently to my grandma.
