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Madison Scott-Clary
2024-05-28 22:10:43 -07:00
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@ -78,29 +78,29 @@ She smiled — another blessing! — and nodded to me.
"We sat in the solarium and spoke about what reading *is.* She spoke of taking a story or a poem and wrapping oneself up in it. She gave me an example. She recited a poem:
> Too many suits move in too many lines.
> They circle banquet tables, hawk-eyed,
> hunting crudites, canapés, bruscheta.
> Fingers ferry food — fish, perhaps — finding
> slack-jawed mouths already open,
> squawking at wayward children
> or bemoaning The Market,
> whatever that may be.
> At some point, who cares how long ago,
> death surfaced, claimed one, submerged again.
> Who knows how well they knew him,
> their backs turned, studiously
> deciding that he is no longer of them?
> One could never guess.
> We can say his suit was very fine, perhaps,
> that the room is tastefully furnished,
> the coffin silver, the bar, open,
> quite good, and none of them are drunk yet,
> or at least none look it.
> "Good man, good man," they mutter,
> doing all they can to convince each other
> through well-rehearsed performances,
> that this must be the case.
> Too many suits move in too many lines.
> They circle banquet tables, hawk-eyed,
> hunting crudites, canapés, bruscheta.
> Fingers ferry food — fish, perhaps — finding
> slack-jawed mouths already open,
> squawking at wayward children
> or bemoaning The Market,
> whatever that may be.
> At some point, who cares how long ago,
> death surfaced, claimed one, submerged again.
> Who knows how well they knew him,
> their backs turned, studiously
> deciding that he is no longer of them?
> One could never guess.
> We can say his suit was very fine, perhaps,
> that the room is tastefully furnished,
> the coffin silver, the bar, open,
> quite good, and none of them are drunk yet,
> or at least none look it.
> "Good man, good man," they mutter,
> doing all they can to convince each other
> through well-rehearsed performances,
> that this must be the case.
> The silently bereaved already sit graveside."
I turned those words over and over in my head for a minute, since The Woman had seemed quite comfortable sitting in silence with me. She used that time to drink her water while I played back the words again and again, looking down at my paws, and then returned my gaze to hers. "There is a difference between the performance of grief and grieving, is there not?"