One of my friends in mourning posted on Facebook yesterday, abiding love for the departed in every word. Half way through, I burst into tears and began to keen, the sound guttural and unrecognizable as my own.
This morning I went to the bookshelf, looking for a poem I once read to the one who has – yet again – left me. A poem, I remember, he hated.
Finding it now, I realize with a shock that it is about infidelity, about a spouse betrayed. “I wanted to sleep neither with her nor without her.”
Then here is the story I was looking for.
One time he beat his year-old
daughter with a broomstick.
Breaking a rib bone, and as
she screamed she kept crawling
back to her father. Where else
should she look for comfort?