I didn’t believe in omens until that
stumbling alcoholic of a curb
outside of the Epoch coffee shop
struck its drunk
‘screw you’
into Gus,
my white Kia Spectra’s bumper on that
apparently fateful
Tuesday evening.

The signs were there—
an expired coupon,
a snapped-in-two-shoelace,
and Taylor Swift’s ‘Trouble’ nagging away on
every
freaking
station—

but even after my car bruised his jaw on that
‘begrudged barricade,’
we marched on.

I don’t know,
I guess all those hokey high school English classes taught us
‘not to shy away from adversity,’
that we could only make it to Heaven with
welting knuckles and dusty knees,

but sometimes the universe is just so tired
of making us
so tired.
Hell, it was just trying to do us a favor
because never did I think a little white lie could trigger a rage
so white hot.
As the Xs on your hands stretched
with your clenching fists,
as your face reddened along with the sunset behind us,
I could do nothing but know that futility had me in its grasp.

You have your father’s temper.
Your mama always used to say that.

He soaked his heart in whiskey,
drank until he could no longer see himself in you,
and chugged away his edginess from your face.
He drowned himself in his unholy water
knowing he could only love
the little things mama was kind enough to pass onto you
so that he knew which parts to avoid when
slamming his regret into
the only thing he was supposed to have been proud of.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you were so mad.
I’m sorry you had to relay your father’s resentment that night.
I’m sorry you spent the moments afterward crying
not for him, not for yourself,
but for your father,
apologizing punch after punch;
you will never please him.
No,
you will not find concurrence with each other,
but, trust me,
there is forgiveness somewhere amid your bitter inheritance.

You are asking for forgiveness from all the wrong people.
Think,
not with your fists but with your heart.
Feel,
and take that regret to the cross.
You
can find forgiveness if you just
look
up.

Forgiveness is in the way the sun keeps on glowing.
Little saplings stretch up, craving,
stealing
its warmth,
and though they never come face-to-face,
Mr. Sunshine keeps on giving.

He will be there
to pick you up when you’re at the end of yourself.
I promise
your knuckles are already welting.
You don’t have to spend eternity on your knees;
Mr. Sunshine has already resurrected for you a world of gold,
but you
have a very narrow view of heaven
despite the unfathomable depths of this forgiveness.

It’s soft.
And it’s gentle.
Forget your precedence
because Mr. Sunshine is here,
and now
love will overcome.