grief

But I don’t have a map for whatever world lies beyond death. I don’t know whether there, too, there are meetings and partings, whether we still have faces and voices, hearts with the capacity for joy as well as sorrow.

I’m fighting, alone, every day. I fight with the hell that I survived. I fight with the fact of my own humanity. I fight with the idea that death is the only way of escaping this fact.

After you died I could not hold a funeral, And so my life became a funeral.

How can anyone go up against a gun with nothing but an empty fist?”

Suddenly it occurs to you to wonder, when the body dies, what happens to the soul? How long does it linger by the side of its former home?

When a living person looks at a dead person, mightn’t the person’s soul also be there by its body’s side, looking down at its own face?