The book, Levels of Life,
Was brought to me
On this tolerable summer day
By a wise fate or
A humble coincidence.
I suppose either way works.
My wife is at a funeral
Surrounded by mourners
And probably more than a few who
Have risen to the height of grief
As I am finishing
The last pages of Barnes’
Most honest writing.
Cosmos and coincidence intersecting.
I’m feeling sadness for her,
Dealing with the loss of a classmate
So closely after her father passed away.
I’m sure the feelings for her friend are true,
But I bet they got gobbled up
By the utter heartbreak of losing, Dad.
Such is grief over mourning.
Through this I felt compelled to call my friend
Whose wife died recently after a long illness.
He is eighty and I sense a difference in him,
The pain of her death attacking
The wherewithal of this battered man
To continue with the strength and stoisism
He displayed in the final years of her life.
Such is the relentlessness of grief.
My wife will come home.
I’ll take her lead.
Next week my friend and I will have lunch.
I’ll take his lead.
For these two know grief,
They know how they cope best.
My own bouts with surmounting grief’s force
Rarely jive with how others cope.
So we are.