A Reparation

Luisa A. Igloria

There were some things I often had no

words or explanations for till after the fact

of their experiencing. For instance,

learning forms of the passive-aggressive:

that kind of maneuvering which rendered me

at once cold and hot, which made me second-

guess if not outright believe I must

have been the one at fault, said or done

the wrong thing, not known enough

to hold my place or keep the peace—

which meant, not raised a voice to demur,

to contradict, to question whatever

verdict or decision. How else explain the cold

shoulder, the silent disregard of conciliatory

gestures? Reading a tract on transcendental

meditation, I came upon this principle:

Do not oppose a great force; retreat

until it weakens, then advance

with resolution—something I took

as reassurance about the natural wisdom

of things; how, given time, their

logic would surface to defeat

all counterfeit versions of the truth.

And so it was, it nothing else, stunning

to find that he interpreted the same

in terms of a kind of extremism: he

was the great force never to be

opposed, especially when he'd flown

into one of his rages. Among the choice

parables held up during such times:

how he did not like the way

a former girlfriend dressed (too

provocative for his taste) and so

he followed her to the pool hall where

she'd gone to play a round with friends;

and without preamble, stripped her

of her V-neck blouse, neck to waist.

Even now I feel the slap of more than cold air.

I'm surprised I can bring myself to write

of this for the first time, in retrospect—

Perhaps it is the intervening years,

the gifts of age and distance, the need

to give at last an audience to all the sad

wraiths that lay and festered, airless and

unloved, in the dank basement of the mind.