3.17

I once owned a porcelain cat.
It was about three feet tall and white, and I didn't own it exactly. But it was mine. I used it to terrify my friend, Karla, when she was out at night for security check. It became a running joke. She told me she hated it and I sort of let it stop.
But not forever.
I'm sorry, Karla, that I didn't actually listen to you. Maybe I should have. Maybe I was a bad friend. Maybe you were being overdramatic and playing into the joke and still having a good time and maybe it doesn't matter because even so you asked politely for me to stop. Maybe I'm not as good at communicating or understanding people as I thought I was.

I once fell asleep in a canoe.
I was sick with a cold I caught on a plane, and I was exhausted after paddling for so long. Russell was all alone for an hour or three, and he canoed thirty miles by himself in the dark on an unfamiliar river because it was a race and there was nothing else to do.
I shouldn't have been asleep.
I'm sorry, Russell, that I let you down. Maybe it's human frailty. Maybe it's bad luck. Maybe I shouldn't have shouldered so much of the burden of navigating the river and calling the turns because when I failed you it was more than just having someone to distract you and keep you awake and talk about dumb things while the stars roved ahead. Maybe I didn't understand that I was underestimating him.

I once followed suit.
I was about ten or twelve, and I only had one sort-of friend. I don't remember why we were at the church school, but it wasn't for school or church. There was a vast expanse of time in which we were unsupervised, and my friend started a hurtful game with David, who was new.
I kicked him, too.
I'm sorry, David, that I kicked your shoes, because I was trying to kick you. Maybe it didn't hurt your feelings. Maybe I didn't know what I was doing. Maybe the whole mess is just one small incident in a long lifetime of relatively good deeds spent trying to make up for the next time I misstep and hurt someone's feelings. Maybe I'm not as good at understanding myself as I thought I was.

I once made an inappropriate joke.
I once cursed a dead woman.
I once punched a future friend.
I once stole.
I once manipulated a girlfriend.
I once shirked on the job.
I once invaded a privacy.
I once lied.
I once misrepresented how many times I have done something evil. And I've done it more than once.


[The short story writer in me cuts this here, on this punch, for the dramatic reason that it accomplishes something artistic. But because someone might read this, I think an addendum is necessary. Because I'm not a work of art, I must expound. Because.]
[I feel nasty today because I couldn't have stopped it, I think. Do you know how people go to a priest and confess their sins? I think they do so because it resolves their larger issues. It's not about how many times they've envied their neighbor's truck and the subsequent Hail Marys. It's about having someone to listen to the dark parts of you, someone who won't turn away. This is my catharsis for a guilt I won't speak to you because I don't know its name myself. Good luck.]