The angered child, the poorly chosen spouse,
the bitter sweetness of pride’s lies believed,
the accumulation of a thousand small glances,
letters not finished. The tongue not bitten,
the tongue too often bit.
In perfect hindsight,
clearer each day,
regret’s fibers twist to strands.
Strands braid into ropes.
Ropes knot.
I have come to your table tonight
with these old stories coiled in my hands.
Slip the noose, make your getaway.
Copyright © Rhonda Riley
Regret, I have come to believe, is one of the chief temptations of living past youth. Perhaps the first and most necessary step toward wisdom, regret can be easy for the best of souls to fall into, but eventually it is useless. At its worst, it is a sin against the present moment. I have known a few people in my life who are stuck – still in love with the long-gone or the dead, still pondering past mistakes and misfortunes – until those regrets become the totality of who they are, the totality of what they bring to their remaining loved ones. At times, I have been the stuck person.