For Which I am Sorry

I am sorry for being sexual at the wrong times.  I am sorry for wanting the wrong people to like me.  I’m sorry for desiring the mountains to remain standing while wanting an occasional wildfire to burn.  I am sorry that I gave last-night’s house spider its life, but dispatched the small frog after opening him up with a knife—as one might open a fig or tomato—on the concrete steps of my house when I was a young boy.

The frog’s heart was red and small as a pea.  I plucked the heart free and held it in the palm of my hand.  The heart beat in my palm for longer than I expected, stopped without a sound.   I fancied I was conducting scientific research, but know better now.

I am sorry for my science.

I am sorry for loving the smell of dirt and for often disliking the taste of desserts that are too sweet.  I am sorry for admiring moonlight spreading silver over cold and open spaces and for disliking the sand suffering under summer’s hottest sun.

And I understand that all of this—for which I am sorry—means nothing but to me.

--Mitchell Hegman