You learned of walking pneumonia
In medical school,
An indolent invasion of the lungs,
A kind of slow death.
And now, you acquaint myself with
Walking grief:
A slow-cooked, simmering sorrow,
Reluctant to claim you swiftly.
It makes you gasp for air,
Choke on a sob, and ache
With each breath,
But it won't leave you prostrate.
You wear a mask of normalcy,
Smile, sleep, eat, and appear healthy;
Its heat meticulously roasts
Your heart, layer by singed layer.
Your heart throbs achingly,
But not overwhelmingly so –
this strain of grief is not virulent.
At times, you may forget
That your body is a battleground,
Until you wake, crying inconsolably,
Or find yourself sobbing
Midway through an America's Got Talent
YouTube video,
Tears cascading like confetti
On the golden-buzzered contestant.
Your tears lack joy,
Unlike the man's tears
Upon the realization of his dreams,
Urged by the crowd's chant.
Your tears carry death –
Your father's.
Yours was not a close bond,
But his absence opened your body
To invasion by a different strain of grief;
Your body convalescing from mourning
Your mother's passing – a near-fatal invasion
That left you incapacitated, fighting for survival.
This grief is indolent, slow-growing,
Unhurried in its quest to annihilate you.
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