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broken and standing


funerals are temporarily arranged marriages to grief. everything leading up to the special day brings stress, and when it’s done, there’s often a sense of relief, albeit brief.

you’ll find yourself unbound to rules, as their structure and artifice will leave you little room to cry at will. you will not eat when hungry, sure that self-denial is required penance for living. you’ll wonder whether to take charge of shortening your life, that the sacrifice might lengthen the lives of those you love who still breathe.

you’ll seek guidance through your body by intertwining it with another’s, and it will end in puzzlement and despair. you’ll line shot glasses on your counter, then swallow with a prayer to be released from the hunting gear that weighs down your shoulders and mind.

you’ll lose your eyesight and hearing, then wonder what country your heart has been remanded to, and what god would take the arrow from your bow to strike and steal your livelihood from reach. instead of escaping from hell, you’ll want everyone you know to consummate that part of your lineage.

one day you’ll awaken on the floor of your kitchen, naked and wasted from the capture of an endearing speech and elegant body that seemed to take all of you inside for more than gentle reprieve.

you will find yourself alone and the arrangement will be clear, clear enough that you feel safe to cry beneath your own roof without burying your face in a pillow to hide the mourning so unendearing to those pretending to care.

people don’t die without us, so neither do they live without the transforming birth of memory.

Grief is a baby that crawls from death and falls many times before walking into life. Pamper the baby, and remind yourself that falling is only the fleeting process of standing.

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