Harrison was beyond anything I could do for him; my forgiveness could not reach him, could not comfort him, could not lift one ounce of weight from a man already in the ground.

Forgiveness is something you do for yourself.

It is setting down a weight you have carried so long that the setting-down feels, at first, like falling.

I forgave Harrison not because he had earned it, and not because the forgiveness would help him, but because I was seventy-eight years old, and I did not have enough years left to spend any of them carrying the corpse of an old anger.

He had brought his daughter home.