Maybe we don't bear the unbearable. Maybe we die with it. And in our place some larger, less impatient shape may then be granted space but I don't want it. I want my mother. Sometimes beside her in the bed while trying to tell her I'm okay, I start to weep. She watches me. Her eyes are distant now, gone deep inside some gravely gentle place where, with a stranger's curiosity, she seems to ask What can I do with your sadness? She has no use for it. We will lose what we love, and our suffering is useless, and by dusk all the crickets will thrum their one absence of warning. That trace of light against the hills will spread through trees, undo the ends of evergreen, then fall to fields. It will not hold. As if it means to urge us, look. Love's body must be manifold. Black cricket shell, new summer air, late light. The landscape's all ablaze with gentle strangers. Look. We're standing in a field.
-- From "On Joy", Taije Silverman