I’ve been…occupied lately, with cool stone chapels, somber dark suits, gentle nurses and goodbyes.
The sweetest moment of the past few days was sitting on the edge of my grandma’s hospice bed, having a glass of wine with her. And when something like that is the highlight — I think it’s fair to say it’s a bad week.
Among the sorrows piled on since Friday, a friend of mine lost his twenty-one year old son in a sudden, tragic accident.
I imagine myself a writer, and so I thought there must be something apt I could say to him; something wise, or true or meaningful. Better still, anything that might soothe my friend’s agony.
But I failed. I can’t.
There are no words for the incomprehensible wrongness in burying your own child. No words to express the all-encompassing tragedy in the loss of a young life. No words for the bottomless anguish the man must feel when every sweet memory of his son comes entangled in the knowledge that he’s gone.
There are no words.