5.30.26

Grieving language is a private affair. Without the words, there isn't a real beginning or end to it. Once I believed the poem was the little snail's trail...(Aracelis Girmay) but now I can't see the trail at all. Yet love feels more firm and more believable than ever. Her presence is warm underneath my feet. The Earth has begun to reveal herself to me. 

Yesterday while we cooked dinner, A's mother asked over the phone if she could pray for me. I said yes and she did so in Mandarin. I could barely understand her prayer, but it sounded like poetry. She spoke like any poet would: she asked for her god for protection, for him to guide us on the path we cannot see ourselves. She wanted nothing but good for me. Her prayers brought tears to my eyes.