The Mistake You Think I’m Making

This might be a mistake, is or could be. But, it’s not your decision, and you can’t even have a trivial pursuit cheese piece segment of it.

You think, me and your daughter, me with her, means you have some sway. But short of blackmail, I’m not going anywhere. Or even because of it.

Have you forgotten every action? When did you decide yours were right, wrong, undecideable? If you went back would it take more than a salt spill, drop of water to change your path, or do you believe in fate?

I’ve thought some things serendipitous, but that’s not to say I’m a fatalist, completist, optomist, even. But I know how simply things swing – and Gemma being in your lap a second longer could’ve swung you in another direction.

If you’d left your family for her, would we be having this talk or would you know exactly the person I was. The man I am, and will be, irregardless of meddling, altering, indications.

I am solid like you, loyal to a point, won’t make the mistakes you made: you made them first so I don’t have to. Like Jesus. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Religion’s something like that, I think.

I am not a man of god, but that doesn’t make me godless, and even if it did, that term’s broader than you think. My faith is in small things, pointless things, things which go wrong then go right: bus times, TV guides, shirt buttons. You daughter’s shirt buttons.

I’ve said exactly the thing a man you’d respect would say. Whose ego’s in the way?

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