All is still.
Still room, unleavened by the myriad noises a small boy makes.
Still hands clenched tightly grasping emptiness.
Still hearts craving, craving endlessly without respite, reluctant to beat alone.
Redwoods still press the sky ever-upward.
The ocean still hums her same song.
Fog still rolls into a crocodile at sunrise.
All is, still.
My friends Jodi and Timaree lost their immeasurably precious son Caemon yesterday morning. They begin the impossible task of reconciling the end of his life with the continuation of theirs. With my every fiber, I wish it were not so.