I watched a show in which the president paused to decide. It was the last minutes of his term, and the letter for pardoning lay on his desk, as he weighed the pros and cons of such an action.
He signed it.
Pardoning is a cousin of commuting. It is intriguing to me that commuting means both shuffling from home to work and back again on a path stretching over a familiar route, and reducing a sentence. My linguistic train of thought then plays with shortening a string of words, hopefully without sacrificing meaning.
Our governmental structure gives the power of forgiveness to elected leaders. FDR was generous, granting over two thousand. More recent commanders in chief gave a tenth as many.
Commuting, as in a car, is a daily routine. At least for those people whose jobs happen on site, the effort is baked into a schedule. My current trek is less than a mile, but there were a few years when I schlepped Benjamin to school half an hour each way. That added up to forty hours a month, or a quarter of full time employment.
Commuting, as in lessening punishment, is more sporadic. Benjamin peppered our house with yelling last night, and the thought occurs to me to dole out consequences. Extra chores, or a written apology might appease me.
But then again, I could ask him about it. Without a diatribe about how it was hard for his dad to conduct a zoom upstairs with all the noise, I could keep the sentence short.
"Sounds like you were upset."
If he apologizes, which is probable, I could come back with an even briefer response.
"I forgive you."
Maybe if I exercise that God given power to forgive it will become as familiar as my commute. I could be as magnanimous as FDR. Almost as if kindness is a part time job.
