I always loved this poignant snippet from “Compatibilist”:

I chose to phone my brother,
over whom I worried, and say so.
He whispered, lacked affect. He’d lost
my record collection to looming debt. I
forgave him – through weak connections,
through buzz and oceanic crackle –
immediately, without choosing to,
because it was him I hadn’t lost; and
later cried myself to sleep.