Hard to imagine, in a fog of sorrow that sucks hope out of sight, that a day will come when everything will appear again in its place.
A too fast turn at a tricky juncture on a slippery road led to a steering column through the chest and instant death to a man younger than I am now. This was decades ago. A poet named Tony Velona wrote to the widow: everything is in its place. The poem:
All is well.
All is as it should be.
the universe is always in perfect order.
All is:
The merest molecule,
the mightiest mountain,
subject to change.
We rejoice.
we weep.
Okay,
we care.
We will endure.
We will flourish.
We are made strong
We belong–
each
to the other.
gratuitousblahg 