Tacenda

Grief Will Burn

The hot air is limp as it greets me at the door

It carries a smoldering too still to catch real flame

Like the air’s throat is too dry to cough wind

But in my throat I feel the fire

And in my stomach and head and the tips of my fingers as well

I walk in and the ceiling sighs

Drooping ever so slightly at the weight of life in the home of death

Women in black hats are perched like vultures

Joining men in black suits; the reaper’s attendants

Hushed condolences carry less volume than your silence

No voice of the dead should be so much louder than the living

And that's how I should've known

I see you floating on your back upon velvet waves and flower seas

The stained glass windows around the room splash their colored light onto your body

You lay covered in shining beacons blended with brushstrokes

A cherub’s halo reflected on your cheek

Mother Mary’s hand projected on your chest

You are a glorious masterpiece of sun and paint

But I stand shadowed in a corner where no light or color can intercept

I hear a stampede of somber shuffling behind me

I am trampled by the currents of downcast eyes and wadded handkerchiefs

They pay no mind to my resistance as they march on

They circle around you while I stand behind trying to see over the tops of bowed heads

Sniffs, coughs, and troubled silence spreads through the room like a forest fire

You lay cool and unperturbed by the attention, but I feel the heat building around you

Their murmurs and clasped hands lick at you like flames

You are an island of cool breeze and bright horizon, but surrounding you is a moat of fiery abyss with no sympathy

Their heat matches my own but that can't be

I swear my grief is of a special kind

The heat is of my own creation, not meant for their use

Overwhelmed, I turn on my heel and run out the door

I am afraid my lungs will join in the burning that the space behind my eyes has adopted without my permission

Even my tears create wispy steam when they land on my hot cheeks

I had once assumed that the living is always running and the dead motionlessly soaking in light

But one of us is already being eaten by flames, while the other still waits cooly for the crematory

One of us is as special as a breath of fresh air, while the other is just another identical tombstone lined up with the others across the cemetery grass

I know not who is who