death doesn’t play fair and it’s sister, grief, is treacherous as well. they can arrive on the most ordinary day and twist your world in very unordinary ways. my father use to tell me that death is nothing but a circle. and if i were to looked at it i would see it as a continuation not an end. my father was also a poet. he didn’t have any words for grief other than to say, ‘it’s a mutha phucka.’ which is the greatest truth he ever imparted.
i lost my shit but
pretended like i was holding it together while leading entire groups in
prayer circles and investigating the bottom of the rock we all found
ourselves looking up from.
a dark night rises and in aurora colorado it is day six while we sit in our living rooms living a mother not yet in her 3rd decade plans a funeral and a six year old is lain to rest heroes mere fables leave us wondering about probabilities nursing old familiar wounds in our 1st world consciousness…