There is a woman on the island who mourns for her husband
and cannot stop mourning in the time we have set for her.
She needs a psychologist so we say
but she cannot go to the mainland for help,
she cannot cross the sea as she is too depressed
and we all think this is crazy, she is crazy
for not getting her act together by now and crying
all the time. And we tell her all we know about grieving.
And we feel so much better
about our own heroic distances from the death
and how we move on in spite of our losses
and keeping up the spirit
although the real spirits better be absent.
We are still here
as no one has gone to the mainland as well;
for whatever reason we can think off we are reluctant
and we mourn in our ways without knowing we do.
We mourn as we water
the already dead plants in the garden,
as we go about our lives in a slower pace
as we hear ferry whistles and the sound
of geese flying over, without us longing
to go away too.
We are too dead to mourn well.