Lived Through This
How to Forgive a Murderer
My brother’s homicide remains unsolved. With no face and no name, there’s no one to hate.
When my brother was murdered, the police never found his killer, and my mom said, “Good, then I won’t have anyone I need to forgive.”
She was religious, righteous, or at least she tried to be, wanted to be. To forgive is divine, but without anyone to blame, forgiveness could not be expected of her. She felt she should be off the hook.
“I don’t think it works that way; besides, forgiveness also sets the prisoner free,” I said pointedly. “The only person you’re hurting is yourself, Ma.”
This was how she coped with her anger by thinking about forgiveness, not practicing it, but thinking about it. Her son had been dead only months, his killer unknown, and she was thinking of it — but technically, she had nobody to forgive.
She puffed her Marlboro Menthol Light furiously as she narrowed her eyes at me, the furrow between her brow deepening like a hatchet gash. They had the same brown eyes, David and her. The truth is she was angry as a viper. For her, being angry was easier than being hurt. She hurt so bad it was killing her.
