On a friend’s sadness

One time, the sun went down and my friend went down with it, the blue and black hues of night straining her skin and burrowing under it, into her sinews and bones like stain, and as it burrowed you worried because despite the darkness around us we could see this cold bullseye sorrow move across her face like an arrow, fast and straight through, or like the letter t, just plain and simple, and she wept from the pain of it all, the black and the blue, and I will only say that you would have been very sad to see it. Because we were sad. And although we sat still in our sadness like good children and prayed from our hearts like God asks, speaking softly to her of less menacing things—like the dishes, or dinner, or good friends, it was all for naught because the air had foreclosed all sound and our words came out beckoning, writhing, raging, but utterly sealed in silence. And we stayed there in the darkness speaking our big silent words to her because we loved her and she loved us and the black and the blue was dark and sad but honest and raw; and soon, the honesty and rawness carved out new tools which got right to work right away all on their own, poking holes in the dark little by little until they had pierced all the way through and when they did, light-beams shone down to the earth like miracles, calling us all upward, and up, so that eventually we were standing, tall, brave, powerful, and united in our resilience.