Firestone, Oregon

I found a comment today, almost certainly written by a friend of mine, on a site I frequent for my career. If I’m being honest, I only realized it was her moments ago, and that’s because we exchanged so many emails over the past several years that I identify her as someone who doesn’t use contractions much. Does not, I mean, use contractions much.

She and I don’t really talk anymore. I called her the other week, got her voicemail, said, “Gosh, gee, it really would be nice to say hello, but I fucked that up so I understand.” She didn’t answer, is my point, and I really didn’t say that. But I did. Or I may has well have. What I really said was closer to, “Hey you, I hope everything’s good. Blah, blah, words. I’ll talk to you soon.”

It’s as close to an admission of guilt as I could get.

And I’m not really guilty, which is the shitty part. My violations of her trust have come because other people violated mine. Please, and for the record: I am responsible. Full stop. I fucked up. That’s life and you live with it. But in the same way she’ll never trust me again — again, I wouldn’t if I were her — I feel slightly less shitty knowing that I didn’t deliberately sabotage anything. I’m simply an idiot.

It’s nice, though, stumbling across something that she wrote. To see that old fire, that fresh voice, the one I agree with so fiercely.

It’s nice, too, to remember that even if it isn’t coming back, it once was.


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