Each grief calls out to echo off other griefs.
They know one another by their partial professions of love.
Increasingly unintelligible as memories of our lost loves rely heavier on photos and aging dreams.
An intimate moment remembered as an epoch.
A catalog of wrongs righted off the ledger.
A cruel word as easily tattooed as forgotten.
A needle’s eye of lacking tenderness become a chasm.
Everything distorted for what purpose? To proceed? Proceed where? Through the “process”? To what end?
I know no person who wants to be rid of grief, but only to lighten it and find freedom out from under it.
To this end, perhaps, we are carried along by malleable memories and faulty minds.
-Jason Zerbey