Rend

Loss comes in many forms. I spent this morning at Memorial Park with a colleague. We talked about how many of our social contacts are with people who are in the same business. We spend our working days with each other and then sometimes spend our off hours with the same people. What do we talk about? Sometimes death. It's a subject we live with more waking hours than not. How can we get away from it? Even today, when we tried to find another subject, I was fixed on what may be the impending death of the most loving romantic relationship I've ever experienced. I grieve. Often. I am even writing a novel about death. Is this a good thing? I'm not sure.

Rend



Liberated.
Set free from hushed waiting,
your toiling begins in earnest.

Play Motown.

Volume up, to the right,
to cover your seeping wail
from the curious souls
who parade past the coffins of strangers.
Dance in a black crepe dress
and cover the mirrors.

This is where you allow the tear.
It is a slow, fierce rip.
Nothing can stop this process.

Volume down, to the left.
Only
your
heartbeat
remains
as you look through the eyes of
those who would console.