27 September 2012


An endless shock of information

a flood of memories from when I was there before,

when I was there before that, and then too.

The feelings are always the same.

The Lord’s prayer.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.

The phrase reverberates around my mind in anticipation, and lingers thereafter.

Sinking into the curtains, flowing in a gentle breeze.

Becoming the patterns on the sheets.

Mingling with the dust behind the machinery.

Countless times standing before my family as their eyes are gently closed.

One delicate motion, the softest caress of the priest’s hand down a peaceful face.

There, now it looks like they’re sleeping, I would think.

Our quiet hearts ache.

Open-casket funerals and tears cascading down the faces of


But I can only cry alone, curled up in the corner of my closet,

hugging my knees to my hurting chest.

The throbs of my heart beating against my short, catching lungs as I

cry as silently as possible.

Who am I to cry?

Who am I, so young of life, feel deserving to pour out like this

Only the shadows of my closet, the stitches in my


see me cry.

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