staring at grief

At lunch I eat salad and chorizo at my desk whilst surfing the net for a play to see on Saturday night. I flick thoughts and pages between ballet, drama, opera, Shakespeare, situation comedy, and decide on a Belgian political thriller. I’m merrily squashing yellow pepper and sunflower seeds between my teeth, entering Switch details into the black hole of online data, trusting personal details to a database that no doubt has been personified by a friendly name – Ted, Bob, Dave. Footsteps on stairs tickle my eardrums and I move fifteen degrees to the right on my black swivel office chair. In that moment I see grief mixed with life, truth, anger, pain, raw pain staring me in the face. I listen as I hear of a memorial service, petals falling from shiny domed ceiling to grace broken vessels below, hurt spilling out like milk from a bottle smashed on the pavement and abandoned. Young lives cut short, those left behind crushed by loss, by the black space remaining. My stomach refuses the superfluous leaves on the plate in front of me… I’m indignant, full of something – I’m not quite sure what. Empathy speaks of old ladies with sweet tea, and that word can’t describe it what I feel. Love, humanity, fear, love, anger, love, love. Mate, I don’t know what to say.