Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: grief

Composure, or This Wicked World

Whenever he feels so upset that he cannot handle things, he takes time out to play a gorgeous tune on his harp, and then he is – composed. The harp always stays in his bedroom. Sometime later when he has the time, in the middle of the night, he will get up and the floor will creak as he sits down by the harp and plays that same song, and he cries uncontrollably.

He has been going through his collection of sheet music like they were napkins to dry tears with lately and he is running out of songs to play.

Scar Tissue

That was around the time we thought it was cool to contract flesh-eating diseases and watch them make their porous way across our bodies. If they reached your heart, you were fucked, and we lost one or two to simple incompetence, falling asleep with the red itch lingering at the shoulder. We had the antidote, and that was what hurt, pain radiating outward from our hearts like a physical representation of grief, us thrashing in our beds for days, while our skin rebuilt itself mostly with scar tissue. Our fingernails never grew again after that, so we’re protective of them.

When Grandfather Died

Every time a person dies they are taken to a cold, black room below the hospital. There is a waiting period of exactly 24 hours during which relatives and close friends are notified of the death so that they can lament. Sometimes people are so sad they want dead people back. If they are sad enough, the person in the black room will be revived.

When grandfather died, we adults just could not care, but we told you about it on the off-chance that your tiny heart would bear enough sorrow to wake him from the dead. It did not.