he said their sympathy reminds him
of his
suffering.

that’s why he’s hasn’t told
anyone.

tallying their
thinking-of-you’s
and
tracking their
text-me-if-you-need-anything’s
births a tiring
obligation:

affirm their goodness
with
gratitude.

then the tracking and tallying leads to
seeing who did
and didn’t,
and who did and doesn’t
anymore.

he can’t spin the thread of sorry’s into
silk,
can’t cloak his mothers
battered
body
with condolences
after surgery,
after chemo,
after radiation.

the thinking-of-you’s can’t warm
the hands
that have to
bathe her,
can’t dry the eyes
that have to
see her.

all he wants is more time,
he says.

there’s not enough in the month, or week, or day, or hour.

we hold hands and try
to steady
his breath.

‘de profundis’ lines
course through
my mind

on how pain wears no
mask

and pleasure’s for the
body,
suffering
for the
soul

on how many of us
living
don’t feel
alive,
and how few of us
truly
learn how to
die.

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.
— Nneka

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