Discover more from Letters From A Stranger
Their Sympathy, Your Suffering
Pain wears no mask.
he said their sympathy reminds him
that’s why he’s hasn’t told
births a tiring
affirm their goodness
then the tracking and tallying leads to
seeing who did
and who did and doesn’t
he can’t spin the thread of sorry’s into
can’t cloak his mothers
the thinking-of-you’s can’t warm
that have to
can’t dry the eyes
that have to
all he wants is more time,
there’s not enough in the month, or week, or day, or hour.
we hold hands and try
‘de profundis’ lines
on how pain wears no
and pleasure’s for the
on how many of us
and how few of us
learn how to
Happy Sunday, beautiful people.
I scribbled half of this piece after a chance encounter with a stranger, at dinner, in a city I don’t live in. I asked him, at the table, why grace isn’t etched on the hard ivory of our skulls given the last two and a half years. Have we not all grieved someplace, someone, something? Aren’t our relationships, as my writing coach perfectly put, still fragile?
There’s no illusion that everyone we encounter is shouldering some burden. May we be the strangers on the rink that, for a split second, share the weight and catch the fall.
As always, thank you so much for reading.