Today I wish I could hide under the table like I did when I was seven.
When I was seven, I dropped my grandmother's plate in the kitchen. It fell to the floor and broke to pieces. My first reaction was shock. And then, before I was conscious of them, tears were flowing down my cheek, onto my neck. A salty river of sorrow. "It's okay," my grandma said, with a pat on my back, a smile. She wiped my tears and repeated, "It's okay."
"It's not okay," I told myself. And I ran under the table and hid. There, I was away from all my problems, away from all the misery. Away from the regret. At that moment, I wanted to reverse time, to strengthen my grip on the plate, to stand in a more sturdy position.
At this moment, that is the sweetest memory. A moment of forgiveness. And though I was in pain, I vividly remember my grandmother's smile, her nod of forgiveness and understanding.
Today, I wish to reverse time. But she gives me no nod of understanding, no comforting smile. And I know that I have let her down. I have never done so, not even when I dropped that plate at age seven. But today, I have let her down. I've lost her trust. I've proven myself to be no better than anyone else, even when she praised me. When she swore I was better, when she swore that I, of all people, would not let her down.
Today, I wish I could hide under the table. Today, I wish my tears would mean something. But I know hiding would mean cowardice, and tears would mean weakness. So I write. I write and hope to God for a miracle - something that would, by some God-sent miracle, change things.
And the realistic side of me laughs at my naivete. You don't get second chances in life. A broken plate can't be restored, only mended. Today was my ultimate test. The river of sorrow leads to a sea of grief. Tears won't do. And there's no table to hide under.