Dear Cynthia

It seems to me, that if we love, we grieve
That's the deal
That's the pact
Grief and love are forever intertwined
Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love
And, like love, grief is non-negotiable
There is a vastness to grief
That overwhelms our minuscule selves
We are tiny, trembling clusters of atoms
Subsumed within grief's awesome presence
It occupies the core of our being
And extends through our fingers to the limits of the universe
Within that whirling gyre all manner of madnesses exist
Ghosts and spirits and dream visitations
And everything else that we, in our anguish, will into existence
These are precious gifts
That are as valid and as real as we need them to be
They are the spirit guides that lead us out of the darkness

I feel the presence of my son, all around
But he may not be there
I hear him talk to me, and parent me, guide me
Though he may not be there
He visits my wife in her sleep regularly
Speaks to her, comforts her
But he may not be there

Dread grief trails bright phantoms in its wake
These spirits are ideas, essentially
They are our stunned imaginations
Reawakening after the calamity
Like ideas, these spirits speak of possibility
Follow your ideas
Because on the other side of the idea
Is change and growth and redemption
Create your spirits
Call to them
Will them alive
Speak to them
It is their impossible and ghostly hands
That draw us back to the world from which we were jettisoned
Better now and unimaginably changed