On the dark December evening of the day we buried Dad, we sat shiva in a warm circle in our living room. Shiva is a Jewish tradition, a week of mourning following a death. That first night we said some prayers in Hebrew, which none of us understood, and then people told stories.
But after shiva ended that night, my two older cousins had a peek in Dad’s liquor cabinet where there were fine things like Talisker scotch.
And then they reached right in and helped themselves, talking merrily as they did it, while my brother and I stood there, frozen, watching.
Maybe it’s my inherently petty character. But the things people did and the things they said, in those days after Dad died, I’ll never forget, and I can’t bring myself to forgive. The things they did that were crass and thoughtless I remember like stains. Sure, it’d be better for everyone if I could just forgive. Better, especially, for me. Because really. Who wants to carry that around? But like I said. Inherently petty character. Capacity to forgive, only so great.
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