the counsellors’ lament

meditations on 13 ways of listening

I

Diana came to door with ice tears, traversing her cheeks, living

sorrow streaking as early autumn black squirrels, all around her crescent

moon face,

“ He took pictures of me as I was walking down the street, that woman saw me and cried ‘Carmen, Carmen, bring the camera. She’s here!’

coming for tea and love, empathy and sympathy over the, a dead marriage( 49 years; six children; millions in savings lost, cashed out ) the house of a lifetime no

longer hers,

ambushed

49 years, or 7,

a month of days or a

day

does it matter? the hurt always returns; time heals nothing; nothing

even fading memory, dementias,

are betrayers, as in Porter’s story ‘the jilting of granny weatherall’

no thing is weathered

Nothing

all is absorbed in tears, sobs, utterances of pains that return

as waves to surfed in the seas

seven deadly sins; seven seas; 7

horcruxes

seven ages of man; seven dwarves

the counsellor cannot tell one dwarf from the other; one sea, one sin, one horcrux from another

tears all run the same,

as waves, emotions engulfing,

enclosing emotions

tears run the same

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