We begin by wailing and sobbing, harrowed with grief over our loss.
We pray for the one who is gone, for we who are left behind, for those who will acquaint only in story.
We beg answers to questions never resolved except in metaphor, thoughts that weigh more than the sum of their words.
We make fists, then open palms, hold hands, and grasp shoulders, swaying as a group so that none fall.
We share memories. One is spellbinding. One is provocative. One is a revelation. One is tender. One makes us laugh.
Our tears dry while the sorrow rises with our amens and we step forward. The first step hesitates, the next holds ground, then we lose count.
We will never forget but we move on but we will never forget.
There is an order to paying tribute to those who have passed. The order controls the bedlam that otherwise imprisons us.
It allows a semblance of freedom from unrelenting despair so we can return to order.
Today, though, I am harrowed with grief.
Just a thought 32
Photo of girl courtesy of CC0 Creative Commons