“This longing you express is the return message. The grief you cry out from draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection." Rumi, A Man Was Crying
All I could say: “oh no. Oh No. Oh no." But those were just sounds. There are no words. I can’t fathom her pain; the raw, open wound of her body. I try to imagine, but I can't. She is gone, too. Annihilated by grief.
She said to me… "too many tears."
Tears are the air she breathes. The oceans she swims in.
Tears cover her face, run down her neck….
It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I shouldn’t have let him leave. I know I didn’t put the pills in his mouth. I know. But I was angry at him. The last time we spoke, I was angry.
I would fall. Splay myself onto the ground. Dig an abyss with my fingernails and roll myself into it. Tumbling into suffocating blackness, my lungs would throb from pressure. My heart would explode from lack of air.
....I will tell him I love him. Now.
And Again. And Every Day. And Always. I will tell him I love him every day and always.
Covered in sweat as I write this. Sweat or tears? Both, really. Shallow breaths. Shallow water. A shallow grave? No. Ashes into ocean into air. We shall breathe them in.
Please help her.
Her wails join those of other mothers who have lost children to war, to drugs, to illness. Raising their voices as one, wet faces searching the heavens. Are tears the connection they seek?