The Weight of Mourning

I cannot breathe.
Not from the prayers, rising like smoke,
not from the murmured Barukh Dayan Ha’emet,
not from the weight of the earth as they lower you down—
but from the silence between each word,
where I hear you still,
but I know you are not speaking.

The rabbi’s voice wavers, or maybe it’s me.
The Kaddish rises, not for the dead, they say,
but for the living.
For the ones left gasping, clutching at syllables,
pulling them like air into collapsed lungs,
whispering Yitgadal v’yitkadash
as though it is CPR for the soul.

The earth takes you in small, deliberate mouthfuls,
the dirt falling in clumps,
thudding like exclamation points I do not want to read.
I want to scream, but my throat locks,
and the sound drowns inside me,
a silent howl trapped beneath my ribs.
My hands curl into fists so tight
my nails carve half-moons into my palms,
but I do not let go.
I cannot let go.
I stand frozen at the edge of the grave,
lungs heaving, gasping,
as if I can pull you back with my breath,
as if I can wake up from this,
as if this isn’t real.

Shiva begins, but I do not sit.
I pace, I rock, I press my hands against my face
to hold in the sobs, to keep my chest from splitting open.
I stare at the empty chair where you should be
until my vision blurs, until I forget what time it is,
until my body remembers to breathe again
but resents me for it.
I claw at my own skin just to feel something else,
to remind myself I am still here,
still moving through the thick, drowning hours
of a world that no longer includes you.

And outside, the earth settles around your body,
while I stand here, lungs burning,
breathing in dirt, in grief, in the weight of everything
I cannot say out loud.
My heart pounds against the cage of my ribs,
screaming, screaming, screaming,
but no one hears it but me.

One day, maybe, I will breathe without choking.
One day, maybe, the Kaddish won’t scrape my throat raw.
One day, but not today.
Not yet.