So I'll read one more from this book and then I'll move on.
Grief, as I knew it, died many times.
It died trying to reunite with other lesser deaths.
Each morning, I lay out my children's clothing
to cover their grief.
The grief remains, but has changed
by what it is covered with.
A picture of oblivion is not the same as oblivion.
My grief is not the same as my pain.
My mother was a mathematician, so I
tried to calculate my grief.
My father was an engineer, so I tried
to build a box around my grief along with a small wooden bed
that grief could lie down on.
The text kept interrupting my grief,
forcing me to speak about nothing.
If you cut out a rectangle of a perfectly blue sky, no clouds,
no wind, no birds, frame it with a blue frame,
place it face up on the floor of an empty museum
with an open atrium to the sky, that is grief.