Grief Waking to cry, good grief, the morning after, and the morning after that, loneliness crowded, ignorance attentive, posthumous life, scrambling eggs while crying, crying in the shower, all the muddied thinking turned clear and pure, time measured by a fly’s return to be swatted from the face, the arm. It was summer. Sweat and warm rain, every single thing was a paradox, a prayer. Was “something understood,” said Herbert, which conjured to me shelter, I stood under something. Was it heaven? What did I understand? World slowed down and broken and random and wrong: I stood under nothing at all. Except memory, how once, a summer morning years ago, I stood over grass gleaming with dew and watched countless tiny frogs leap like exclamations.