“Unforgiveness is fueled by rumination—we keep rehashing sad experiences.” ~ Gustavo Razzetti

I’ve proactively sought to forgive my parents, husbands, bosses, and boyfriends who were on my path to teach me lessons.

I even forgave my rapist. Not because he changed, or we engaged in conversation, but because the experience cut into me and buried itself so deep I had to release it or be poisoned for life.

Scarred maybe. Destroyed never. Even if it means forgiveness.

When I read Razzitti’s words, “Unforgiveness is fueled by rumination—we keep rehashing sad experiences,” I realize I haven’t forgiven Death.

Death, I’m furious at you for taking my brother, mother, and brother-in-law. Those losses knocked me out. Still, I rose to grow more aware and compassionate.

Then, you took my beloved. How dare you steal the man who fit me in my 50s after I’d tried so many others?

After befriending me for 25 years and calling me Ice, Kevin melted me. He became my Fire. We dove into crazy, sexy, cool love, as delicious as morning coffee and as comfortable as a favorite pair of jeans.

He vowed to give me the authenticity I craved, danced congruent, and swiped away my walls with his magic-eraser heart.

His arms were my home. He got me, and I got him. No one was pretending. We lived in a no-bullshit zone.

You snuck in and stole him in the night, Death. You blew like an explosion on our boat of bliss.

WTF?! Why didn’t you take one of those other dudes? Why did you take my Fire?

I’m so f*cking mad and there’s nobody to be mad at besides the pharmaceutical giant who rendered him a statistical cost of doing business. Who’s to prove what caused his heart attack?

It doesn’t matter. You took him from me, Death! You snatched him while he slept, happily packed to come see me.

F*ck you, Death! I’m angry at your cruelty. Why did you take him from me?

Can I decide to forgive you? I’m not there yet, but I’m trying.

I see you come to everyone. Maybe it was his time.

Maybe in the spiritual world we made this agreement with you. I’d like to renegotiate.

Can I renegotiate how I feel about you, Death? Or are you my forever enemy? You’re clearly the taker, but do you have a benevolent side?

It’s easy to see when I sit at the service of a 90-year-old Quaker woman who proactively chose to leave life’s party and left a lingering breeze of easy love in her wake. She got to choose.

It’s harder to forgive you, Death when you take a 22-year-old just on the verge of building her solid foundation. How do you do this to parents, Death?

Life and Death. How can I accept you, forgive you for the role you’ve been assigned, and not ruminate on all it’s cost me?

I forgive you, Death. That’s me practicing. I forgive you for putting out the Fire. Nope, I’m not there yet.

Was it a gang of angels who snatched my beloved or did you, Death invite my Fire to a party he couldn’t refuse?

He tells me the music there is better than any rock concert he attended here, even though he lived the rock and roll lifestyle for decades.

Did you hold the door, Death, while Kevin’s mother stood in the doorway inviting him to the other side?

Kevin tells me he can do so much more to help me now. I believe as much as I miss his physicality.

I attempt to forgive you, Death so I may welcome conversations and opportunities with Kevin on the other side.

It’s been three years. I must forgive you, Death.

May I use these experiences with you to be of benefit and stand beside others when their loved ones are greeted by you.

My intention is to forgive so I may live without anger in my heart and serve with love.

But, I see you coming around the corner again, inviting my soul-companion pet, my Lab partner Phoenix, my dog who is, as Kevin would say, “my dawg,” to go to another party I’m not invited to, one on the other side, where my loved ones dance to music I cannot hear.

I’m left to repress my anger and disdain for you, Death. Forgiveness hasn’t become me, yet.

Maybe it isn’t just the rehashing of sad experiences, but the repetition of them. Can you give me a break here, Death?

Please, can you let me rest so I may rise in forgiveness?