His father died. He was...
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His father died. He was really angry. To have to be there. To not be able to vent his anger -- the others were all grieving. Keep busy, that's the ticket. He wasn't crying all the time, like the others. Work off the steam; get things done; do the errands. Don't let on about the anger. They'll want him to forgive. Forgiveness? Not for Dad. Run the errands. But, the thing was, he was so tired. The effort to open the door, to get out, to close the door, to walk inside, to remember what he had come for, to talk in sentences, to answer questions. And after all the errands, exhaustion. Holding it in took all his energy. Tired people make mistakes. Maybe even hurt themselves for reasons they don't understand. Throw something. Hit something. Cry. Let it all out. Anger? Yes. Sorrow? Yes. Forgiveness? Maybe some of that. A little more now. Letting go of the grudges. He's gone, left. I can't get vengeance. Do I need it? Did I ever? What good is it? Don't need it now. Didn't really need it then. Pain? Still there. But different somehow. Freer. Not bottled up. That's not it ... more like something dead inside has come to life. That's it. He had it. The pain and sorrow and anger and guilt freed to become love and forgiveness. -- Mosley
