“I’m sorry.” Two simple words that can be articulated to mean a number of different things. Two words that, unfortunately, we have been exposed to our entire lives. Two words that are perceived as a good thing, yet in all reality symbolize the acknowledgment of unacceptable acts. When these two words are strung together to create a sentence that will invariably be answered with a quick “It’s okay”, it is easy to assess what has just happened. I wish I could say that I’ve been around these words my whole life. I wish I could say that I haven’t been around these words my whole life. As we grow up, we learn that in life there are certain types of people. First of all, there are two categories of generic people. There are those who constantly make mistakes, and there are those who rarely mess up. Everyone screws up at some point in their life, there is no doubt about that. Yet, the variation comes from how many times they’ve made mistakes, and deeper yet, how many times they’ve made the same mistake. From there, there is another division. There are the people who say “I’m sorry” for every slightest matter, and there are those who will never say it. Unfortunately,
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At first, we worked together to read the chapter books with typical plotlines like Scooby Doo and the Werewolf. From there, my mother introduced me into my love of poetry with works by Shel Silverstein. And finally, at the age of 17, my mother is teaching me the beauty of life with poetry that writes what our souls haven’t been able to speak. Every time things start to get rough between the two of us, or we start to travel down the path that lead to our suffering, my mother finds her forgiveness and squeezes onto it with her life. Sometimes, my mother still reads me poetry. The favorite story she likes to tell me is one called To Fathers with Daughters, only we both know it’s really about my mother and
At first, we worked together to read the chapter books with typical plotlines like Scooby Doo and the Werewolf. From there, my mother introduced me into my love of poetry with works by Shel Silverstein. And finally, at the age of 17, my mother is teaching me the beauty of life with poetry that writes what our souls haven’t been able to speak. Every time things start to get rough between the two of us, or we start to travel down the path that lead to our suffering, my mother finds her forgiveness and squeezes onto it with her life. Sometimes, my mother still reads me poetry. The favorite story she likes to tell me is one called To Fathers with Daughters, only we both know it’s really about my mother and