Welcome, Grief.
Come and sit with me a while.
I’m glad to have you, glad to know
that I can call on you, rely on you
to be your own good, solid self,
the sort of self I need
in place of the one
that is now quite gone.

I like you, like your steadiness,
the full, weighty substance of you.
Bulk is what I want,
heaviness is what I want,
not some dainty,
flimsy ghost.

Sit—I will make you and me
one of several cups of tea.
You, good gypsy that you are,
will read my tea leaves.
And if a tear falls from the cup
(and it nearly always will),
I will see nothing in it
but the simple charm
of the fortune told.

Sit, Grief.
We will talk for a long while,
longer than anyone cares to know.
Hold my hand, and I will hold yours:
We will make a sort of seance,
we two. No spirit will come,
only the wispy perfume from those
flowers on the table, brought here
in honor of your arrival.

I hope you can see,
I hope you know just
how welcome you truly are.
Sit down with me, Grief.
I hope you will stay.

—Elizabeth Cooper