My tears are dry. Dry like sand. Lost sand of the Sahara scratching the place between bone and marrow, a constant irritation, clogging up my eyes. It's hard to cry when you're coping, managing what needs to be done. "Big boys don't" but that's not true anymore. It comes out in dreams. The other night I was put into a psychiatric hospital, tried to escape, was captured, and locked in a room. I heard the key being turned on the outside so I was trapped, alone, in bed with no way out and I wondered would I panic or stay calm. Then I woke up. There's a bit of madness that comes with grief, especially when it's pent up, locked inside. Next, I dreamed about Josh Groban. I was on stage and he was in the audience and I was telling him how much I love his "February Song" and today I found a very poignant video of it on YouTube. "Where has that old friend gone?" And of course, now I realize that for me it refers to John who went awa
OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN
Eamonn Monson SAC