Let’s bring closure to “closure.” Events of the past days are tragic reminders that the word is more wish than reality.

Who really doubted that we’d eventually read a headline saying, “Body of Chandra Levy found.” In our heart of hearts, we knew all along she was dead; we didn’t need Washington Police Chief Charles Ramsey to tell us that what law enforcement officially classified as a missing person case more than a year ago was now “a homicide investigation.”

Deep down inside, we knew that she hadn’t deliberately disappeared or suffered an attack of amnesia or been kidnapped by Arab sheiks to become a sex slave all theories tossed about since she was last heard from May 1, 2001.

Levy, the intern whose disappearance led to the downfall of the Modesto, Calif., congressman with whom she apparently had an affair, was found in Washington’s Rock Creek Park, a combination oasis/urban crime magnet. The discovery of her remains, apparently scattered over a rather wide area, brought “some resolution” to the Levy family, according to Judy Smith, a spokeswoman, but, as she went on to say, “It certainly doesn’t provide answers to what happened to Chandra.” Those answers may never emerge.

And there never should be “closure,” despite what the headlines say. No more than there should ever be “closure” in the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church bombing case even though the last of the accused murderers was convicted last week, 39 years after four girls attending church in 1963 were blasted into history and others were forever scarred.

Just months after the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. expressed his optimistic belief in a dream that could include black Americans, racist rascals targeted a church connected with the civil rights movement in Bombingham, Ala. And they killed Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Cynthia Wesley and Carole Robertson, who were there for Sunday school, for God’s sake.

Who honestly doubts that Bobby Frank Cherry, the 71-year-old who now loves mankind of all stripes, was one of that claque of klansmen who did the dastardly deed that Sunday morning? Who, honestly, feels an ounce of pity for a man who has had nearly 40 more years of life than those girls might have had?

The families were “well pleased” with the conviction, according to Addie’s sister Junie Collins Peavy. “We feel like we can go on with our lives now. … Justice has finally come forward,” she said.

But Eunice Davis, Cynthia’s sister, said it best: There is no “closure” so long as questions remain. “Why did these four innocent girls have to die so young? Why is there still so much hatred in the world?” she asked. As should we all ask always.

In Connecticut, where Michael Skakel is finally on trial in the long-unsolved 1975 murder of Martha Moxley, her mother may be pleased that the prosecution has gotten this far, but even a conviction can never be her Balm in Gilead. Her daughter is, and has been for nearly 27 years, dead, lost to her entirely. No high school prom. No high school graduation. No college applications to fill out. No wedding. No grandchildren. The pain will never subside; the memories will never be erased; the anger will only be tempered. And yet we talk of “closure.”

When remains of World Trade Center victims are found, there is fear that we have begun to forget, that our best defense has become denial of Sept. 11’s horror.

My colleagues in the media should drop the word “closure,” which they bandy about almost from the start of any tragedy. Rather than admit they are seeking ways to move on to something more immediate, they claim that what the rest of us want is “closure.” But we cannot close ourselves off. We can never stop asking Why? Yes, we shall move forward. But forget “closure.”