We must

My father’s last cogent words to me were: “We must forgive other people their foibles.”

It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, November 27, 1994. Jesse and I were about to leave for Newark Airport to return to our home in Portland, OR. Mother, Daddy and I were standing in the hall outside their den in Piscataway, NJ, saying our good-byes.

I said to Daddy, “You never know when will be the last time you see someone.” He died five days later.

I needle-pointed his last words but never framed the little piece of handwork, or made it into a pillow. I put the piece in a collage once, but tore it out. It didn’t seem right to assign it to a place among other detritus.
After all, these were my father’s last words. Didn’t they deserve something better than being glued to a board?

So they lie in a drawer in my flat file, along with other things that I once made, evidence of past efforts, such as samples of my design work. It’s just sort of lying forlornly in there, a little skewed to the right like a crooked smile, because I never stretched it into being a proper rectangle.

But I do think about those words. Whenever I have had it with one person or another. Whenever I am troubled over a relationship. I think about his words and wonder “Why? Why should I forgive other people their foibles?”

I have come to know why: because if I don’t forgive, I will be a mess for the rest of my life.

My father gave me a gift that could bring me lifelong comfort, if I but only heed his words. I can’t go to him anymore and ask him what I should do in any given situation. But he saw to it that I will always know the answer: forgive.

How could he have known that this combination of words, this particular sentence, this peculiar sentence, would forever take me to a place of solace and understanding? How could he know?

Musings are futile: I just accept that he knew. And the proper way to thank him for this gift does not involve hand stitching words in silky yarn.
I need only remember what he said, and I’m home.