Sometimes I believe my grief is singular,
as if I am the only wave hurled
against that craggy coast.
Trying to find comfort,
I recall the story of the Buddha
and a grieving mother.
Buddha said he would resurrect her son
if she could find a home in her village
where no one had died.
Later she returned to the Buddha
and said, “I understand.”
Then went to bury her child.
Knowing that others suffer losses
helps me bury my dead,
but does not assuage my grief.