03: December 2014 #03 - The Cross-Country Mourner’s Kaddish
Authored by Sarah Rosenthal
The Cross-Country Mourner’s Kaddish
I bet you taste like bad news on a Sunday morning: cold, crisp, and quiet. You’re the feeling of shoes on feet too early, the walk around the block, the shake-it-off. Somewhere your body lies bent in grief’s primal trigonometry: a heart, a fist, a dinner roll. Let me be your quiver, shoulder-perched, attached not like wings, but like the Sunday morning guest with dragon’s breath and coffee cake. You are not alone. I throw a stone like you will throw a stone. I’ll murmur the prayer you never thought you’d say: you think there’ll never be words or enough words or a word for he died and I wasn’t ready or one day I’ll leave here or thank you it goes.