The problem with grief, I decided,
is its torpid pace; a dull misery that sticks
like quicksand.
Why can't a heart break quickly,
like a treasured thing, shattered all at once,
so life could begin again (or not)?
At least the breaking of it
would be fast.
But not this death.
Here, grief is measured in tiny shards,
each breath eked out, insufficient,
and if you can't bear it,
wait for the next, and then the next.
Picture yourself on your knees
sobbing, and praying,
but you're not kneeling,
and the whispered shred of prayer
is a false attempt.
In the next breath
you're out the door, driving away,
running away,
trying to overtake relief that remains
just out of reach.
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Author Notes
The picture is the Angel of Grief, an 1894 sculpture by William Wetmore Story for the grave of his wife Emelyn Story at the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. Its full title bestowed by the creator was The Angel of Grief Weeping Over the Dismantled Altar of Life.
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