A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

"...I was completely captivated by him. He rarely spoke to anyone, yet his presence commanded the utmost respect. Others told me that he was pure evil, the Devil himself. They referred to him as the Devil actually. But all of that just added to his mystery because I had never seen that in him. Why did they think of him like that? He was actually the only one in the house who behaved differently. He was one of them--one of us--but he was compassionate. I had never seen him plotting cruelties, and that was fascinating...


...Sometimes his clothes are dirty when he comes home. They're...splattered and his hands are stained. I just try not to get in his way when he's like that because he's still so worked up. I know he would never hurt me, or even speak harshly to me, but I do see it in his eyes. I see why they call him the Devil. It doesn't scare me though; it's all just a routine. He tosses those dirty clothes. I get them out of his sight and into the washer. He takes a shower. He walks past me on his way outside without a glance or a word. He plays his violin for a while. I think it reminds him that he's human. Sometimes he plays the songs that made me realize that I was human and not a bitch in a kennel. It always makes me smile. And after a cigarette or two, he is himself again. He talks and smiles and laughs...and when he holds me, I forget that his hands could be capable of anything but kindness...This life wasn't our first choice, but it's how we found each other, and he is my first choice...


...It still doesn't feel real. I don't know if it ever will. "Hospital, prison, or grave"-I suppose we were all personally committed to that, but I never meant to commit him to it. He was invincible...I actually liked his scars. They made me feel like no matter how badly he was hurt, he would always be alive. I think I found security in his wounds because I thought they were the worst thing that could ever happen to him. I still think that somehow. I still wait for him to show up here with some insane story about faking his death to protect me or something. But even though I was Cinderella, there is no fanciful happy ending. It really did end like this. He really was mortal...and when I was crying for him, I realized that no one else was. The only tears shed for him were poured out in Paradise Valley, Arizona, and East Los Angeles, California. The rest of the world was glad he was gone. They didn't give a damn that he was someone's son, brother, uncle, father or husband. They didn't care that he was actually a kind and moral man with a strict code of values. They didn't care that this illiterate man with broken English had worked day and night to support and protect his family. He was just the bad guy who seduced their "innocent" children into cartel life. He was the villain who addicted them and used them as "slaves" to buy and sell and traffic for him. He was a friend to some, but a rival to just as many others. He was the Devil. And he was not only unworthy of mourning, but his death was cause for celebration..."




Don't let anyone else tell you what is or is not worth grieving over. Don't let anyone else tell you what is or is not worthy or your tears.
You cannot choose who you love. And you cannot choose how or when you lose them. Therefore you cannot choose to make your feelings about that loss "unreal" or insignificant. They are what they are. You may very well grieve for someone for the rest of your days here, knowing that no one else will. You may weep knowing that all others have forgotten the agony of the loss. You may mourn while others rejoice, perhaps even rejoicing that someone supposedly got what they deserved, whether your loved one was an adulterer, a swindler, a murderer, or a kid who was in love with someone of the same sex.
You may scream and sob. You may "swear and curse the Fates". And that's OK. That's nothing to be ashamed of.
If, when you die, you see that person again, it will be all the more joyful, and they will surely know how fiercely they were loved.