I sometimes pick up trash on my walks. You know, that whole leave the world a little better than you found it thing?

A crumbled piece of paper. I pick it up intending to put it in my pocket and throw it away. Instead I uncrumble it. Curiosity? Fate? Who knows.

Sorry, written in pencil. The only word written on the paper. A sorry that could be erased. Was it written or received. Was it delivered or discarded.

How many times have I meant to say I’m sorry but let the moment pass. How many times have I been too stubborn to say I’m sorry. How many times have I used sorry as a temporary fix until the next moment.

I’m sorry.

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