I wake sulky, reluctant, reviewing my resentments, lonely, yet don’t want visitors. Nothing satisfies: the sun is too bright; Our home too quiet. I want to hide. Another funeral - sitting huddled within myself, fists clenched, trying not to listen, wanting to leave, shaking. I crave - a softening in my throat, eyes that don’t itch, a conversation no longer available. Somewhere there is joy, waiting, perhaps, to flash through me, again, but now I’m grieving.