Mistakes My Mother Made

Back when I was young enough to know
that I knew everything there was to know,
but not yet old enough
to realise I had it all to learn,

I was certain  - I'd never lose control, get fat, be sad
and any children that I had would view me
as a friend. I'd never scream and shout, or doubt them;
I'd know everything about them;
they'd confide in me, assured that I'd be firm but fair
and always there - by day, by night,
they'd never contradict because they'd know
that I was always right.

In my mind, imagined patience grew
like branches of an olive tree that spread
to calm and soothe
and offer shade to friends who'd swarm for comfort.
In all these things, I was supremely confident.

But my mistakes were great,
and once old enough to know that I knew
nothing much of anything, yet still young
enough to realise there was so little time
left in my life, to learn,

I told myself to forgive myself.
I forgave my mother's mother, my daughter
and my daughters' daughter, my father, brothers,
aunts and uncles, friends and foes I'd known 
and those I'd yet to meet.

I forgave my next door neighbour's barking dog
for stealing sleep, the men who post the leaflets
through my door - the ones I never read,
rude shop assistants, people who bumped into me
without apology, interrupters who forgot 
to say, 'excuse me', or 'pardon'... I forgave everyone 
who'd ever done the things I couldn't understand
but said they'd tried their best and meant no harm.

They were the ignorant who knew not
what - and then I thought of my dear mum
and couldn't for the life of me remember 
what crimes of hers could possibly from me 
demand a pardon...

That's forgiveness.