ABSINRAW

Sorry doesn’t make a dead man alive. It’s hard to recall how many times I’ve heard my mother repeating this statement whenever I’d committed a mistake as a child, and apologized. Maybe she meant it to reinforce the weight the word carries. Thereon, I strived to protect sorry from being used as an excuse. But life found ways to teach mostly through mistakes where apologies were always due.

Sorry was intended to mean something, but somehow it started to mean everything. So much so, that the word held more importance than the people it was supposed to be held for. Over years, it became even harder to recall when I gave up trying to bring the metaphorical dead men back to life. When the burden of their lives overwhelmed me, I decided to dig graves for all I could have saved by saying sorry, by choosing not to, as a silent acknowledgement of the damage caused and taking its responsibility.

And then, someone came up and showed me how the burden led to a release all along. They decided to save me, by saying sorry. Something rose up from the pit of the stomach, froze between the throat and the chest, and before I could rule out the possibility of a stroke, tears gushed. It was the experience of being understood, and the realization of what I robbed everyone of.

I am aware that my apology either won’t reach, or matter to many who deserved it. That’s what I’ll live with.