The Unforgiveable

Of all the various things for which

I might have withheld forgiveness,

one remains. When we moved house

and that kid helpfully watered 

the garden beds along the low veranda

and also my just unloaded tea-chests of books,

I knew what to do. 'Give me a hammer.'

I was going to claw open the lids

and set the books standing upright, 

pages open to dry. But you were fierce

insisting I must not, while she, 

the mother of the boy, soothed: 

'Just see them safe, undamaged.

Just know they will be all right.'

No matter I begged and cried.

Apart from anything else, 

I couldn't find your damn hammer.

And no-one would help. You all acted

as if I was a foolish, hysterical child.

I don't know why you took that attitude.

Was it because she was pretty; did you 

wish to impress? Was it to spare 

the feelings of the ignorant boy?

You said there was no room

to spread the books to dry – but there was.

We could easily have shifted chairs,

made more space in that vast living-room,

anything – but it had to be done at once.

Of course, when finally I was allowed

to prise the crates open, I was lucky

that only some by then bloomed with mould,

only some had the ink running and blurring

on authors' signatures, only some

were water-swollen out of shape, and only

some were destroyed beyond legibility,

and so beyond keeping. And of those,

not all were irreplaceable. Many I had not

treasured from childhood. Most were not even

expensive volumes in monetary terms.

You never said sorry. I know that you never

let yourself understand why I didn't just

get over it, like a sensible person.

Written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Books.

I should add that it was a long time ago (1987) – and since then I have always owned my own hammer!