Into the trembling
Perhaps grief is its own answer. Its own genius. Maybe nothing needs to be added on. Not consolation. Not promise. Not glittery glimpses of a grief-less future. Maybe grief is a question, the asking of which we are too impoverished to know how to. Too fascinated by plot points and story and arrivals and endings and heady notions of forever, and all-too-human phantasms about what we want and do not want. Or need and do not need. Maybe grief is the already-interface between our flighty autonomy and the unspeakable. The preciousness of losing control over the contours of our bodies. How we come to wet shores and calloused hands and a ‘grander’ yearning.