There are two kinds of crying we do for the dead. There are the tears of loneliness when a sudden memory reminds us our dead are never coming home again. And then there is the crying we do in the oppressive hours of darkness and it is the sound the soul makes when it is bereft and broken and empty.
Grief is a predatory bird riding your smooth high calmness, far from the surface you show the world; sometimes you hear it call your name and it sounds so far away, haunting yet beautiful. But it is not beautiful, it is a stalking entity that sees you coming before you see yourself. It circles and it waits and it watches so that it may strike with precision, without warning, without mercy. Once it has you, you might as well be dead.