When I have grieved most urgently, I have known deep in the tough, rubbery muscle of my heart that no one felt what I felt. When my mother died, I had three siblings who had also lost her mischievous ways, her unshakeable love, but still I felt terribly lonely. I wandered in a place so cold and featureless there wasn’t even a tree to speak to. Every human I saw lived on the other side of an uncrossable river. Everyone else spoke a different language, one with words for
“There’s no cure for grief… But sometimes there’s poetry.” Yes.