I want to be happy for them.
But you see, they are them.
They have not carried death.
Perhaps they know death.
Perhaps they are motherless, fatherless, brotherless, sisterless.
Yes, those things must lodge rocks in the stomach.
Perhaps loss has attacked them,
and still awaits for them,
as it does anyone
who spins in circles around the sun.
But they are still the protected class,
and it is hard to be happy for them —
the ones that do not wake up
on a beautiful sunny spring morning and think:
“This is a lovely day to visit my child’s grave.”