One Summer in Savannah

by Terah Shelton Harris

Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could be any different. —Oprah Winfrey

The truth is, my love for her started much later, when the reality of her conception had faded enough for me to see only her, when I realized that she, like me, was a survivor.

And the thought made me homesick for a mother I had tried to forget and a brother I had abandoned.

He hesitates. “I’m sorry, Sara,” he says, pausing, the words tight in his throat. “I’m so sorry.” There’s so much for him to be sorry about that I don’t know where to apply this apology. About what his brother did? His mother’s relentless fight against me to save her son? Having to tell Alana the truth about her conception? But the directness of his stare gives nothing away. I decide to apply his apology to all of it and silently accept.

I had no idea about the foreign language proficiency or that she possessed a photographic memory.

In this moment, I realize, like me, Jacob is a victim of his own family. He has weathered some unspeakable traumas. None by his own hands. And I believe the sincerity he has exhibited toward me; his reaction and actions have been real because he can relate to being hurt and confused. I know now there’s more that combines us than separates us. The weight of this realization makes me lighter.

“Thousands of years ago, when Uranus was forming, something, and we’re not sure what, smashed into it. The impact was so forceful that its axis tilted by ninety-eight degrees. It still spins but on its side. There’s no other planet in our solar system that’s tilted that much.” I look at her. “That’s you, Sara. You took a hit, it knocked you off your axis, but you keep spinning no matter what.”