I am not sure I know yet,
and I am sure that I do not understand,
the depths of your sorrow,
your loss,
your absence;
there is no succor for abandonment.
I reach out my hands towards you,
but you recoil,
as if I were some kind of asp, or cobra.
I am not,
so confusion sews through my brain,
like a tremulous seamstress.
Now, I feel lost as well.
Calling back my better nature,
sit myself in your place briefly,
just to taste the salt of your sorrow
and know you are genuine;
for pain
is fire,
and fire
is clean.
I love you,
but I wield no force
great enough to sustain you.
I cannot bring back
that which you have lost,
nor can I offer platitudes
of formidable measure
for your pain,
but I can tell you one thing;
I can share a story,
of a woman who lost a son,
of a man who lost a brother,
of a people who lost a leader
of a man
who lost His life
to take all our pain.
He died
and lived again,
to show us that death is not the end.
Whatever it is,
it is not the end.
So cry your tears
and I will sit here with you.
I cannot save you,
that cheque’s already cashed.
I will be with you,
in the morning
and the evening
and I will tell you
the only thing I know:
death is not the end.
-HG