Forgiveness

When Jack Loscutoff still lived with me, he made me so mad. Like the doddering old man that he was, he spilled white correction fluid on my prized wooden floor.

When he saw what he'd done, he knelt to clean it up, but the gleaming Wite-Out clung to the floor and would not vanish.

"Let me try." However, my green scouring pad didn't work, either. This spot, I knew, would remain on my floor forever! 

My temper flared. "How could you do such a dumb thing?" 

"I was holding it like this," Jack cradled the bottle in his palm, "and I turned to look at something and it tipped like this."

"Stop! Don't spill it again!"

Jack is long since dead, but not that white spot. I glare at it each time I enter the dining room. I try to forgive his clumsiness, but I can't.

Then the other day, working in my office, I unscrewed the cap of a brand new bottle of rubber cement. A squirrel scratching at the window distracted me. I turned back to see my own hand pouring a thick stream of rubber cement on one leg of my jeans.

I screeched—"Oh, no! Brand new jeans. Only worn once!"—and scooped up as much goo as I could. I grabbed paper towels and sponged up the dreck, but a stain remained. 

"How could I be so stupid." Hot soapy water didn't help. Neither did the green scouring pad.

However, I did not despair. "It's only rubber cement. It'll wash out in the laundry." 

But it didn't. A dark spot, as big as my hand, persisted.

I folded the jeans, to be used now as gardening pants, but my loss made me snarl. "You doddering old lady," I said. 

Suddenly I remembered Jack and the Wite-Out. His sin so mirrored mine. Would I cling to my anger as I had with him, or forgive myself. 

Of course, if I forgave my decrepit self for dumping dross on my pants,I had no alternative—did I?—but to forgive my shambling Jack, too.

So I shopped around until I found a pretty ivory throw rug. Took it home and forgave Jack when I tossed the rug over the Wite-Out spot, rendering his accident invisible to my angry eyes.  

Now I'm on-line, shopping for a replacement for my gummed up jeans: Lee, classic fit, straight legs, 12 short, made in Mexico. I better order two pair; Trump surely will outlaw jeans made in aztec country.