Lament for the 8th, but held.


April 8th Lament

Weeping seeps forth from the radio, in a single violin note drawn out long, the resolution of a woeful melody bowed on wounds still uncauterized. An aching echo reverberates in my deep well. Here lies the origin of sorrow for those gone before and those yet to go. The poignant pitch awakens anew my singular fact: I know what it is to lament.

The mournful note floats, hangs in suspension, threatens to never end, then submits to unexpected silence that lands like a smothering cushion, leaving a stifling silence. In the asphyxiating vacuum losses are not concealed or consoled.

When birds go silent all at once their modulation to stillness raises alert in the unaccustomed absence. With the eraser of sound, I knew you left. A wind, a charge, swept by and through my car, vanishing radio waves from the universe. For the precious seconds that passed, all sound suspended, as every particle of you, surrendered to another dimension.

Sarah Figlio