This was her response every time he apologized.
She wouldn’t give him an inch, you see?
She wouldn’t give him any ground to stand on.
He always towered over her anyway.

But he turns 78 tomorrow, and he doesn’t seem
so tall anymore. She’s known him half his life,
but she still wonders if she’s ever really known him.
She can’t see the whole, for the part–

the part of him that is wounded and has been
for a long time. Blood seeping, flesh festering,
a Midas touch that leaves everything blackened with hurt.

She looks down at her stained heart and wonders:
Will I ever get this damned spot out?