Speaking out the terror

It struck me that the sudden death of a child, one whose parents are not strangers, whose footsteps still echo in my childs' school hallways, whose name is memorialized in a chalk heart besides great wreaths of daffodils and sunflowers, it struck me that though she filled no card in my address book, my grief drags me wearily through the day, my body acts out relief, fear, sadness and futility by aching all over, measuring each movement.

Empaths do this and yet we have no clue. How do I assume to know what it feels like to lose a child? I shudder at the thought of upturning that natural order. In truth, I have no idea.

Lone Holocaust survivors left entire families in the ashes and managed to rebirth themselves. Still, I could not help being emotionally ragged with empathy for the surviving parents of the three young girls, who only 2 days ago were so utterly and magnificently primed for life.

What to do? Visiting one memorial site with a candle was surprisingly calming.

Then my friend called. He shared that his body aches, his movements are weary. He too saw himself in the broken heart of that father. Now he was throbbing with guilty relief, grief, and compassion.

So we spoke out the terror, we stripped our relief naked, we allowed the grief to ache in our joints, and here we are, breathing deeply again, just 2 men, fathers, being gifted another day.