regrets collect

I regret telling secrets in the third grade, being young and rash, expecting eventual forgiveness. 

I regret being upset when my dad didn’t come to my winter recital, then being even more embarrassed when he did come to the spring showcase. I remember cringing when I saw him waving like a crazy person from the seats. My reaction keeps me up at night.

My ninth grade English teacher asked us to write an essay about whether humans were naturally good or evil. Aside from analyzing To Kill a Mockingbird and Lord of the Flies, I did some self reflection.

It is natural to feel jealousy, and sometimes it is a challenge to feel joy on behalf of others.

It is intrinsic to be prideful, to be greedy, to show arrogance if we ever so slowly let our guard down.

That is what I see when I think about myself, the seven sins swirling in my conscious, hissing across axons.

But I see my mother and father and brother and my friends.

I know they are not perfect, but surely they are more light than ashes, more good than evil.

I couldn't tell you every one of their regrets, every pang in their heart that tickles them awake in the dead of night when they have work to do in the morning. But I know they're there.

I know demons come in varied forms. Carcinogens in the foods we choose. Unfortunate disasters that we rationalize ourselves into thinking we caused. Dreams ripped apart, and our belief that we deserved it.

I’m back in English class, thinking about how I’m going to answer Mrs. K’s prompt.

The boys on the island were evil. Scout, Atticus, and Tom Robinson were good. But they weren’t so different, were they? The hopelessness, the failure, the death. Demons follow whether the author has characterized you as the cause or the victim.

If a tree falls in the forest when no one is around, does it make a sound?

If a horrifying thought crosses my mind but never makes it out, do I hurt a single soul?

Only my own.

I forget how I answered that essay from the ninth grade.