Not Knowing

There is a man. Not an old man, but his
age is not the issue. More telling is the fact
that he's not young enough to be confused
about his actions, just in case you might have
wondered. He's aware, in other words. Knows
better, didn't do it. And he's smart enough to plan
and plot, to cover tracks, so not a case of mental
illness but there is, most definitely, some sickness there.
His race is quite beside the point, as - really - all the pain
and suffering and economic lack he may have faced
when he was just a boy. If that's the way it was, how sad
for him that he allowed his past to turn and twist him rather
than becoming better, higher, greater than the circumstances
he could not control. Maybe where his heart should be, his joy,
there is a gaping hole because no parents said they loved him.
Maybe he was often hungry, bullied, used or beaten. Perhaps
he lost someone he wanted, cherished greatly, needed. None
of that provides a viable excuse for what he did, what he would
do again if given half a chance. My faith requires that I forgive.
And love. But fiercer love for someone that he hurt requires
that never, ever, will I see the day that I forget. There's something
in me that would welcome something of a face-to-face, a tête-à-tête,
a confrontation with this person, asking all the anguished details
so I have the whole, unvarnished truth, connect the dots and put
each piece where it belongs inside the puzzle. But this meeting
will not happen, though, as I've decided that with some things,
it is healthier and wiser not to know.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014