Last week I heard a Nobel prize winning economist remind us that the stories we tell to make sense of life are told only in retrospect. We can't nail it down as a mystery, tragedy or comedy until it occurs. Only then can we assemble the characters and plot.
And sometimes, even though we are the only species with language to tell our tales, no story can explain. I'm thinking today of a Chicago story.
A young man -- working as an Uber driver -- is hacked to death by a teenager he picked up for the fare. Now, his mother finds her way across class and race from Winnetka to the southwest side.
She grieves with the other mothers in a support group for the families left behind by the gun.
When murder is the author, we'll never figure out where to place the book on the shelf.
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