We don’t cry for the dead. We cry for ourselves, our pain, our loss, our grief. Seems like a self-indulgent activity and leaves us drained and spent. So stop it. Why cry? Instead we should cling to routine and pretense praying that it will hold us until gaps open in this wall of pain.
Hoping that eventually tiny root hairs of normal will sprout and anchor.
With luck, normalcy will grow enough to crack the immense wall of hurt. I know it will never erode into nothingness, but I’m going to try so hard to grow all over that pain. Germinate and smother it like Kudzu. Obliterating its shape and for with a dense verdant covering. Maybe then we’ll feel all right.