Sorrow's Hold

"Just block out memory," the analyst tells me. Yet images of my friend, emaciated, persist. His last day - I scream at the nurse, "More morphine! He needs more morphine!" Suffering that contorts his body like the peel of screeching tires. "You're not family," the nurse shouts, "that decision isn't yours!" My friend slips off, de-masking pain. His lost grip on everything he once controlled. We worked together, built things together. Years melted into our bond like the unheard voices of beggars welded to streets. I gave the eulogy. Tailored dignity. Was it enough? Our suffering is an open jar of preserves - preserved when we remember loss - preserved because memory (ever on the prowl) sits on our doorstep to pounce every time we walk out.