Grief

I was crying, crying because I felt like my world was crashing around my ears.

It was a book, beautiful and new, mahogany-colored. It told of sorrow, sickness, pain, and death, and everyone in it is dead now.


It was a tear, shed because of two words.

It was a book cover, not yet stained, dirtied, or ugly.


As tear met book cover, the book seemed to sigh, and I knew that of all books, this was the book that could understand grief.

I don't really mind that the cover is stained.


Do you?