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The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you down like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again.
To love life, to love it even and everything you cared about falls apart like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the dust of it. When grief is with you, its tropical heat making the air thick, heavy as water more suitable for gills than lungs; when grief weighs you down like your own body only more of it, an excess of grief, you wonder, How can a body endure this? Then you hold life like a face between your hands, a plain face, no charming smile, no striking eyes, and you say, yes, I will accept you I will love you, again.