Behold the barley stalk, the shepherd's firstling, a mother's outrage. The widow's shock. The glass, more than half empty, disturbs the universe, leaves in its wake a parting shot, reflections caught in midstream, yet fraught with the ubiquity of absence. There is no word, not even tikkun , that can alleviate such an untimely demise. Late blooms in mourning percolate side by side, unsolicited as heartburn.
Ecumenical rites acknowledge the crossing of the threshold.
Memorial locutions inter- loping the context from afar, grasping for air, mimicking the pneumatic last chance. One by one we withdraw.