Cry

Cry.
When I go, I hope you cry for me for years
And a lifetime.
When you hear my voice,
Or feel me familiar
I hope it kills you—
With me.
Scream and growl.
Wail and sob-on alone in your home.

Once, I made a delivery to a stranger. From the walk, I heard a woman inside yelling, roaring, and sobbing. I stood a few feet from the door before I announced my presence. The sound was so beautiful and passionate. She howled and bellowed words I couldn’t understand. She sang out in anguish and it was a feast and a symphony. She made me feel the pain. I felt the urge to cry with her, and then I pushed the glowing yellow dome. She took several minutes to gather herself, but I held patient—out of courtesy to the suffering. A Hispanic woman came to the door. She was middle aged, neat and pretty, with tied-up large curled black locks falling off her head. You’d never guess that moments before, she was in the grips of a fit of passion, mourning and screaming out for the lost. The dead.