Writing Grief

When she left, I wanted to write all over my body—nothing permanent like

tattoo, but indelible, inked with a ballpoint pen, a script, stories that would fade

with the pouring of everyday showerings, slowly dissolving under the heat of my

clothing or fading with exposure to the light and air of ordinary life.

But I kept my urge inside, thinking everybody would catch glimpses of my story on my arms, legs, face, neck and hands, see my raw longing and grief and end up smiling in condescension or sympathy or staring in disapproval at my public display.

I bought a white sweat shirt instead, with appropriate fabric pens in black

and blue. They lie, with the shirt (carefully folded) in the bottom drawer of my

dresser, sleeping.