He died yesterday. All is still this morning. No birds sing. Few people are stirring in the dawn-light. Though the sun shines, a dreariness seems to canopy the world.
Did it really happen? Was he even here? His voice seems to echo from a century ago, not yesterday. All the joyous memories have been smudged, blurred into a nondescript futility.
Would it have been better that he never be born? The good, the joy, the strength, the confidence that he stirred in us seems a vaporous ache now.
The last several years were overflowing with hope, but now everything has changed. We don’t live in yesterday. We live in today. And today is nearly unbearable.
I long for a new tomorrow. A tomorrow in which the ache is sucked away and hope rises again.
Can such a tomorrow ever come?
Wait. . .
