Under the rage (and the styrofoam) there's grief. I'm reading Death and the Gardener, and my father comes up with the words on the page, and then I'm listening to a talk about victimhood and rage and grief and forgiveness. Somebody comes to say she didn't cry when her father died, because when her grandfather died the family told her Don't cry, so Gabor asks when her father first left, and she says he left her with her grandfather when she was four. So she grieved him when she was four, a long time ago. I didn't cry when my father died either. I wonder when he first left but then I know. He said he never loved my mom, and so I think he was walled off from us kids. I felt the wall and I grieved him from the beginning, from the other side. What comes up though is the thing about rage. I hated him, and I was trapped in past pain. Gabor cited a psychologist, Edith Eger, who forgave Hitler. She says we can stay walled off in a prison of pain, or we can choose peace. Gabor asks if you forgive, who would that be for? Yourself. This is the work we can do.