Delivery

It is easier,
It seems, to have a friendly chat with
The UPS man, a total stranger
I have never met before,
Than to forgive my sister
And brother-in-law.
Our cousin, once a UPS driver
Himself, now languishes
In prison, disgraced and
Excommunicated from the family
For his crimes,
So it's not like I have some glittering image
Of the delivery men in brown.
But still it's easier to give
A kind word to a stranger
When there is no shared history,
No expectation,
No deep and lingering hurt,
No lies, no misconceptions,
No "open secrets" like
His alcoholism,
Her complacency, or
My own quick temper
And self-righteousness,
Than to reconcile
With a relative,
Flesh and blood.

The anger is, I am certain,
Mutual. (Self-)righteous
Indignation versus wounded pride. My speaking
Truth - my truth at least - to
What I perceive as abuse, they
Taking offense at the slight
To their character,
To their own (Self-)righteousness.
So now we are at a stalemate. We
None of us can face the light
Unless we are willing
To face the shadows cast by
That same light. And our own
Shadows can be terrifying.
What the Buddha said
Is true: Holding on to anger
We are the ones who get burned.
Yet how can I release this coal when
It has seared its way into my flesh?
Or face my own shadows
That I might be the first one
(Perhaps the only one)
To seek forgiveness?
"Thank you again for delivering
the package. I hope you
Stay safe and well."

— Zachary