The Fifth Dimension
By Mary K. O'Melveny
There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.
As I was talking to my friend, he broke
down in tears, recalling anew, that his
wife had recently died. Is gone. Today,
some telemarketer asked to speak to
my long dead mother. For one tiny tick
of a clock, I almost handed her the phone.
How do we navigate shape-shifting grief
and still make coffee in the morning,
exchange words with neighbors about the
sorry state of our televised world or look out
our windows to gauge if promised rain
might fade to something akin to mist?
Surely, it is in those split seconds when
memory's failure blots out bereavement,
when we step forward into some state of
transcendental mercy when yesterday
is restored. A slant of sunlight on snow.
Before the unthinkable had time
to be thought. Before we had to
don mourning garments or speak in past
tenses. Our ground solidifies.
A conversation continues. A smile
returns. We want to stay there,
liberated from known dimensions.
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