there is something distinctly feminine about the way women grieve
it's in our weary bones not to make a sound, to be as quiet as possible
lest we're deemed crazy by lab coats and across-the-fence neighbors
grief is what separates us from men
men let the whole world know their pain
they share their suffering like halloween candy
leaving a physical trace of the mourning stage
men leave their losses in shattered beer bottles on the side of the road
men leave their losses in holes in the walls
men leave their losses in a scream of rage, of unbearable grief
but women scream too
even if it is behind closed doors, faces buried into dish rags
mothers bury their children six feet deep, and hide their burning sadness in an obsessive storm of fretting and cooking and cleaning
all the things a good mother should do
even a childless one
wives place a rose on a large casket, and tend to their gardens, so the children aren't able to tell that a piece of their mother has just died too
she fills the hole in her heart with daisies
a good wife, even when there's no one to please
a woman's grief is an intimate, private affair
two lovers in a broke down motel in the shadows of the night
women hide their brokenness behind a porcelain mask that was given to them by their mother
and their mothers before them
a woman's grief is passed down
never broken,
never spoken.
