What is Tragedy's Size?

I don’t know.

What is Tragedy’s size?
The little gray mouse with floppy ears on the sidewalk,
silent?
“That’s sad,” my son said.

Is it the weight a father leaves
when he leaves
his children, taking away from them
the weight of him?
Weightless.

Is it the helpless fury of a wife
desperately clinging
to a heart-strayed man—mere matter and flesh?
“Bone of my bone!” she screams.
He doesn’t turn around.

Is it measured by the
tears
of a child
or the bags of powder in the safe?
Is she safe?

Maybe it’s the depth of a cradle,
empty,
or labor pains that end in
vacant arms.
A baby’s cry, never heard.

What if it’s the length of a handgun,
gripped,
in the hand of 
brokenness?
Hurt people hurt
people. 

Is it the weight of the world on your
shoulders?
Sure it is.
And mine and yours and theirs and
ours.

What is Tragedy’s size?
I don’t know. But I know him who
will swallow it all up and
drown it in his goodness.

Man of Sorrows,
acquainted with grief,
carrier of burdens,
conqueror of sin.
We ask,
when?
“Surely, I am coming
soon.”

---

ICYMI
Recent Essays, Articles, and Poems:
Grief Oblivion on the blog
Like Mama, Like Son: Facing Anxiety Together on Risen Motherhood
November Recs | The Bible and Anxiety + What's on My Christmas List
Navel-Gazing Won’t Help You Grow on Well-Watered Women