Casualties of Forgiveness. Part VIII
Maria and Adil followed dusty yellow corridors to a small house. There, her father reunited with an old cousin, shared tea, overdue thanks for a fake passport. She noticed there was little intimacy left between her father and his family. The cousin was one of few people who’d still welcome Adil into his home. The price of new beginnings.
“Here, take them” he handed her a stack of pictures and a pocket flashlight. “I left these things here before bringing you to Los Angeles. I know I’ve waited too long to speak to you, but I wanted to be sure you were old enough to understand, to forgive me. Your mother deserves to see you before she dies, but that’s all she deserves. I’ve learned to resent everything about Europe.”
Maria turned a worn photograph in her hand:
Her father, the year he became a man. Young, proud, his own family cupped like water in his hands. She, an infant in her mother’s arms.
“Dad,” Maria said. “I don’t understand why we’re doing this. I don’t understand much right now. I’m lost. I’m pregnant and I’m lost.” Tears spilled into her father’s chest.
“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He stroked her hair the way he’d done for years. “A child isn’t a reason to linger in old worries,” he said. “The miracle of a child is that it needs us. It’s a reason to find a strength we didn’t know was there.”
Adil held his daughter as she moved to the next photograph:
Her mother’s family standing proud behind them, glasses raised. Her father making a toast, a Moroccan among them.
“She’s pretty,” Maria said through a running nose.
He watched the folds of past and future turn in her fingers.
“Moroccan men aren’t supposed to marry Polish girls. Especially pretty ones.”
. . .
That night Maria sat staring at an empty street beyond her window. A three piece band in the hotel bar sang of God and one night stands. She lit candles that refused to burn calmly. Her father’s story had overwhelmed her. The brutality of an uncensored past. Her part in a history of violence. She’d become terrified of tomorrow’s flight. Of mortality and awkwardness. She was beginning to learn that we are creatures of forgiveness, often slower to forgive ourselves.
“Here, take them” he handed her a stack of pictures and a pocket flashlight. “I left these things here before bringing you to Los Angeles. I know I’ve waited too long to speak to you, but I wanted to be sure you were old enough to understand, to forgive me. Your mother deserves to see you before she dies, but that’s all she deserves. I’ve learned to resent everything about Europe.”
Maria turned a worn photograph in her hand:
Her father, the year he became a man. Young, proud, his own family cupped like water in his hands. She, an infant in her mother’s arms.
“Dad,” Maria said. “I don’t understand why we’re doing this. I don’t understand much right now. I’m lost. I’m pregnant and I’m lost.” Tears spilled into her father’s chest.
“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He stroked her hair the way he’d done for years. “A child isn’t a reason to linger in old worries,” he said. “The miracle of a child is that it needs us. It’s a reason to find a strength we didn’t know was there.”
Adil held his daughter as she moved to the next photograph:
Her mother’s family standing proud behind them, glasses raised. Her father making a toast, a Moroccan among them.
“She’s pretty,” Maria said through a running nose.
He watched the folds of past and future turn in her fingers.
“Moroccan men aren’t supposed to marry Polish girls. Especially pretty ones.”
. . .
That night Maria sat staring at an empty street beyond her window. A three piece band in the hotel bar sang of God and one night stands. She lit candles that refused to burn calmly. Her father’s story had overwhelmed her. The brutality of an uncensored past. Her part in a history of violence. She’d become terrified of tomorrow’s flight. Of mortality and awkwardness. She was beginning to learn that we are creatures of forgiveness, often slower to forgive ourselves.
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