Walking grief – Poem

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.