Grief

Grief consumes me. I sit to write, and the faces of the lost appear as my reflection in the screen. My grandfather, grandmother, all their generation long gone and buried. My mother and the men and women who raised and guided me, none survive. My father-in-law and mother-in-law, their siblings, gone to the grave too soon.

The heroes of my youth, the actors, the musicians, dying one by one, diminished by age to death.

And my youth dead and its memory hazy and fading. Soon, I fear, only the discomforts of old age will remain to treasure. Better that than the void of death.

For all these and more, I grieve, not because I want to, but because they parade across my monitor, within my mirror, and through my memory.

I want to speak with them once more, with all that passion, energy, and ignorance of youth. I need their wisdom at my age. They walked my path. I recall their dignity, their joy. They must have some advice, some explanation, some comfort. But I can’t hear them.

M. Frank Darbe

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