Sorry for Your Loss

I’m so sorry for your loss.

It still comes out of my mouth. My death doula self turns back at me shocked every time: don’t you have anything more profound on offer? Yet it still flows right out. It’ll come out of your mouth too. Because I am sorry. You are sorry. We are so sorry that death comes for each of us, and if you are very lucky, after either being terrified or actively ignorant of that fact for much of a relatively long life. 

I am sorry for your loss. What I mean is that I am sorry that you know that ache in the bottom of your stomach that doesn’t know the different between vomit or tears. What I mean is that I am sorry I can’t hold your hand for three hours while we stare at the lake. I mean that I am sorry you seem to be holding in a howl, a sneer, a gnashing of your teeth against the coldness of inevitability and the implosion of your heart. I’ll match your pitch. Howl away. 

I’m sorry for your loss.

I’m sorry this will make you lose yourself, part or whole.

I’m so sorry for your loss. 

Did I take and make this job so that I could write poetically about death all the time? It’s a perk, for sure. 

Is there something else I should have done? Could’ve done? Yes.

I’m so sorry for your loss.