afterword

the funeral finishes but not the sadness. as the benediction ascends on the wind of a collective sigh, two thousand mourners pull each other to solemn standing.  i grip my father’s arm. then-waiting. no moving, no sighing, no breathing. we linger in our refuge of stillness before they take the body away: one second for every grief, but only one, too soon to end. any disturbance and she will somehow be more gone than before. the cellist places bow on strings; church door opens. how dark was before! the melody paces our lungs expanding, the music translates the sun radiance into air, and we know what to do (we're breathing.)