To forgive is divine...

This past Thanksgiving I spoke very briefly to my estranged cousin over the phone. He sounded in high spirits. And told me loved me at the closing of our conversation. I said it back, as a knee-jerk reaction. But I know I wasn't even close to meaning it. You see, we had a very rough childhood growing up in the same house. He was a skinned-up-knees wrestling boy. He wasn't satisfied being on the ground; he had to scale every tree in the yard and take on the highest fences in the neighborhood. I was a semi-tomboy, so at first it was fun tagging along behind him. But eventually he got rougher. And his pranks (what's cousinhood without pranks?) became more frequent and increasingly painful (I'm talking BB pellet to the ass painful). A lot of stuff went on between us, including theft from my mother by his mother. I grew to hate him and wasn't sorry when we moved away from him.

Now bare in mind, I refuse to spill my guts to a pack of strangers. But things with my cousin were a lot worse than you might think. Let's just say, I once came (*) that close to needing stitches. He was obnoxious and overpowering at times, rude and completely disrespectful of my things. Once he borrowed my bike and rode it off to gawd knows where. He returned a half an hour later and left it with me to run and skateboard away with his friends. I discovered the bar that holds the seat of my bike hand been cut, neatly in half. My first bike. I'd owned it for about one week and I had to say goodbye to my nice shiny seat bar. I cried bitter tears when his mom's boyfriend recycled an old white, rusty seat bar for me, declaring that "it was the best he could do". Eventually I got over it. Like all the arm twists, sleeper-holds, body slams and everything. Or so I thought I got over it.

When his brother was killed, my cousin and I were still under the same roof. His brother had visited the house once and I met him that one time. I don't recall seeing my cousin for a week after the funeral. When I saw him again, he looked fine. I never said anything about his brother. Never apologized. And he went right back to terrorizing me, thoroughly.

Just recently, maybe 2 or 3 year ago, he lost his mother to cancer. I absorbed the news. Did my best to be the good-hearted, God-fearing person I know I can be. But I wasn't able to muster very much in the way of sympathy. I just wasn't. So I saw my cousin at Thanksgiving dinner about a month after he lost his mom. He looked fine so I didn't apologize. I didn't say very many words to him at all.

Now I realize it makes no sense to carry on with this grudge. He hurt me. Yes. He tortured me at times. He destroyed my belongings on a whim. He turned me into a sore, angry, nervous wreck for a number of years. But... you know what? My family is still intact. I have never lost anyone that close to me. Maybe... just maybe, after two deaths in his life, after being saddled with the responsibility of raising his two surviving little sisters and having to force himself into adulthood... maybe it's time for me to lay this grudge, this black putrid force of hatred inside of me, to rest. Because hate and begruding only takes away from your life. You don't gain anything from it. There is no benefit to it. I feel as though I've lightened the load of my life. And why not? I've come a long way, haven't I?