The view from the window in front
of my desk doesn’t appear to have
The garage door gives the illusion
of depth. One bug light fixture is
either staring at me or looking
straight ahead from the wall.
The stucco doesn’t flinch and that
spiky cactus never waves back.
The small width of road looks
like a wide brush stroke in black.
No, wait. I thought I just saw the
dark blur of a small pickup going by.
Or was it the silent stroke of the
master’s brush touching my soul?
I’m beginning to think that it isn’t a
a window at all. It is a still life, a
painting on the wall. My life is
staring back at me.
Isn’t this the same view I looked at
all last year? Yes, but why? Then I
remembered. When the pain runs so
deep, it is not always best to forgive
too quickly. You have to remember
before you can forgive and forget
without shame. Remember
everything, the good things, the
painful things, the unknown things,
the hidden things. The master is
mending my soul, with the brush of
his steady hand.
Each stroke of remembering is
lovingly applied. You never really
forget. But it is the remembering that
is different. It is the remembering
that enabled me to forgive, forget,
and leave it all behind. I can see that
now. I the warm sunlight fills the
Can you see past your pain? Only see
see smudges? I know love. I know
pain. I’m learning how to remember,
forgive, and forget differently.
I am a window painted on a wall.
Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)
I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)