Eulogies written once a year,
Often more, too many,
Inspired by shadow filled holidays,
And feeling an emptiness so potent
That it paralyzes us at times,
Because there’s a lifetime of words
To be said about the grief of a loved one,
Infinite stories that will never be enough.

And we write, because we have to,
Compelled to make you understand our pain,
Something that explicitly rips out your heart
So that you can watch it beating, and wonder,
Wonder how the hell it still works at all,
And marvel at the fact that survival is easiest
When you’ve stopped wanting it.

Grief remains when everything else is gone,
The feeling you can’t escape at the bottom of a bottle,
It becomes a part of our DNA, a genetic mutation,
This is who you are now, our reflections tells us,
So we write, returning to our oldest and truest compulsion,
Because this is who we are now and we want understanding,
Except we don’t, because the emotion feels extraordinary.

There’s a thousand ways to tell you the same thing,
That I’m fucking devastated, and it won’t go away,
My world spins on a different axis now
And I was perfectly happy with the old one,
But I know I could write a thousand eulogies and still,
You won’t understand until you’re at a funeral
Stunned into silence at the void that is death,
Haunted by how a body looks when it’s empty,
And wondering how life is supposed to continue,
Half-certain that it can’t and yet it does.

Grief is something no one understands until they have it,
Because no one understands why we keep writing
About things we’ve already said a million times,
Until they feel it themselves a million times per second,
And realise that we’ve been limiting ourselves all this time.

© Richela Rosales Maroto 2018

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