The Fog of Grief

It rolls in like the fog creeping under the Golden Gate. It is the leaden, motherless, mantle of sorrow. The fundamental discernment of how short of expectations this life will fall.

My life hip joint pains me when I flex it outward. All the yoga and bodywork in the world may not make it be otherwise. For, part-by-part, my human body will fail.

I miss the optimistic glistening of a woman’s skin held close in the sunlight of some heroic locale; the tippy-top of a boulder or the City Hall steps of some Republican stronghold. Now: there are only my own soft folds of fat. My facial skin no longer snaps back flat, but falls naturally into pouty, sour, shape. Women reject me. I reject them.

The fog grabs me by the chicken neck. Cold and damp.At these times there is only one way forward: to take the hand of the loving mother as big as the world.

She balances me on her knee and brushes my hair. She stands me up and straightens my clothes. I must merely set down my many platters of good works and let her. The task of the grieving is to let her love

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