Fold up the poems, draw back the light. There is no purchase for other grieving fingers here. I can be rock, seamless. I can be quiet. Ask if you must, but I choose to say no. My heart is whole within, holding grief and joy equally. Ask if you must, but my essay is not ready for your eyes.
Because your questions ask, did I feel grief in my physical body? And to answer that I must tell you how my veins throb, and how many days/ months/ years I have lived suspended between dreams more vivid than the waking world. Ask me about the tsunamis. Ask me, if you knew to do so, about how I know that just because something's in your head doesn't mean it's not real.
Because your questions say, how did you smile at your daughter's birthday, only a month after your father died? I would never have guessed, you say, and this is why I choose not to answer. Because you did not know enough to guess, and if you did your guesses would be wrong.
Because your questions say, did I support you enough? And to answer that I must tell you no, you did not, and I'd have to tell you support comes from leaning into each other, and you and I haven't found that balance yet, despite years of going on walks together.
Yes, these are question years. But no, you cannot have my questions. Your grief is a black hole, one where only contrast is possible, where your sorrow can only be explained, justified, made real, by explaining my life as nothing but privilege and joy. I refuse to be swallowed whole. And so my essay, my attempts at balance and forward motion, remain shielded.
