Regrets I Failed to Have

This afternoon I sat down in a cafe and was surprised to see my mother's sister glance at me, then take a seat three chairs down. She had absolutely no idea who I was. I was moderately surprised, because I haven't changed THAT much and I do see her at a distance often. Perhaps those occasions were one-way-spottings.

We don't have any direct contact with one another and that's a good thing. There are people in the world who simply can't quite wrap their heads around such a notion, I know. None of them were related to Hitler, Stalin, Hussein... at least I suppose they weren't. We can want our family members to be good people. We can even love them in spite of a failure to realize that hope. But when bad people remain broken, the wisest and safest thing to do is remove yourself.

I removed myself before many others in my family did. It was hardest on my mother, I think, because she is used to cherishing her anger. Truly releasing somebody from your life means you let the anger die, too. You stop feeding it.

Which is why, I think, I am writing this. It all feels very odd. And even as I AM typing this my uncle has just leaned over to whisper in my aunt's ear. And she has realized that she is sitting three chairs away from her niece. And now she has gone pale, tense, and angry. I reach for an emotion of some kind and can't find anything more than the natural curiosity of an analytical mind, and a vague sense of absurdity. I have no regret or pain, no sorrow. I find myself wondering of the ghostly impulse to laugh is a phantom manifestation of the latter.

In the end, though, I guess what I really am is glad not to regret.