The something

There is something that happens. It makes it possible to keep for hurt people to get up in the morning.

The something is a rallying, as to a long, high-pitched call from a mountain-top. Clusters of people circle around. They touch one another. Forehead to forehead, cheek to shoulder, hands gently rubbing in between one another's shoulder blades. We touch each other to make sure we are all still here.

Food is made, piles of food stack up on tables, the help pours in, the people keep coming, they fly from across the world.

Maybe tomorrow is possible.

We call each other, just checking in.

And then, the singing. So wounded, but so brave, slow hymns, wavering song in deep sorrow.

This something, the people who drift into each other's arms. Maybe there will be a way through.