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By the Transitive Property, I Forgive You

March 20, 2011

The other day I found the Prayer of St. Francis in my wallet. It was a small, black-edged card from my father’s funeral. He would’ve liked you, until recently.

You’re the guy who used my heart as a pinata.

If he’d listened to the story he’d have said: “The guy did a dumb thing. And you, you did a dumb thing too. I’m sorry, but you did.”  Because my Dad was fair.

“Is he a good guy — I mean, basically, is he a good guy?”  (yes)

“I’m sure he feels bad enough. You don’t need to put him through the ring of fire. Forget about it.”  That short.

And somehow he’d circle around to the story of the one and only sex talk his Dad ever had with him, in the front seat of the Ford before my Dad was shipped out to the Navy.  It was brief, elegant and raunchy.

He’d ask: “Have I told  you this story?” to which I’d say: “Yeah, Dad! I love this story!”  I’d be glad for the diversion. He’d light a cigarette (do they have cigarettes in Heaven? I’m guessing in his section, they do) and sit pensively, forgetting me and remembering his father. “So we were both in the front seat of the car, staring ahead, not looking at each other. My Dad sat there, hands tight on the steering wheel, until he blurted out: ‘Francis. An erect penis has no conscience.'”

He’d exhale, grinning with mischief.

Just for fun I’d put my hands over my ears and cry: “Dad! It’s not you we’re talking about here! Remember, I’m your daughter!” And at this fake modesty we’d laugh, he’d put out his cigarette and go back to Heaven.

Thus my Dad, who is much wiser than I am and easy with forgiveness, would have forgiven you.  And so, reluctantly and by the transitive property, do I.

It isn’t easy, but what worthwhile thing ever was?

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One Comment leave one →
  1. Ruth Davis permalink
    March 20, 2011 3:33 pm

    Brilliant!

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