Grief is a light proof box.
A 35 millimeter camera that my father bought for me when I was 12.

Grief is a black button,
which when pressed,
allows a tiny bit of light,
concentrated to a single point,
to enter through a thick lens,
and to bounce off of a mirror.

Grief is an empty roll of film,
waiting there in the dark,
on the back wall,
to be exposed
to the single point of light
converging through the glass.

Grief is a chemical reaction,
that burns an image into the film.
Upside down, and invisible.
Negative, undeveloped,
and extremely thin.
Delicate.

Grief must be handled with caution.
If it is accidentally brought out
into the light, it will be overexposed.
Defective. Unusable.
It must be opened carefully.
It must be taken to a dark room.

Grief is a dark room
where we stumble and we fumble
with solutions, in order
to create the correct chemistry,
to develop, to cure, to fix.
Where we deliberately unfurl the film.
Where we hang out the negatives,
one by one,
to drip dry.
Slowly.