I’ve been keeping a running ledger of my failures—
every dropped ball, every quarter of the year’s
worth of the didn’t-quite, catalogued and filed
under the heading of the less-than. Wild
that I’d never hold a friend to this accounting,
never press the red pen to the mounting
evidence and call it settled. But myself—
I’ve been the hanging judge of my own shelf.
The apology I owe myself is overdue—
the compound interest of the self-review
has exceeded what the ledger can support.
I’ve been the prosecution and the court
with no defense attorney present.
I’m sorry—the apology, the decent
thing I should have offered years ago:
you did okay. The apology I owe.
I’d tell a close friend: you’re carrying the grey
with more function than you credit—the relay
of the daily is not small, the ongoing
of the adequate is hard, the showing-
up to your own life consistently
is the achievement. I’d say this with sincerity.
I don’t say it to myself. The apology:
the same compassion, turned inside on me.
So here it is—belated, somewhat awkward,
the self-directed sorry I’ve deferred: you worked
hard in conditions that were not ideal.
You held together things I know the feel
of holding—I know because I was there,
I am there, I’ve always been. With care
proportional to what I’d offer anyone:
I’m sorry. You did fine. The apology: done.