We drag ourselves to this widow's wake

feeling mute and cold.

When did your husband die, one woman asks us all.

Last month, and you?

Yes she says.

Me too.

Was it bad?

Awful, we chorus.

I feel numb, says someone.

Oh yes.

I can't sleep she adds, voice shaky.

Sleep? A woman whispers wryly.

What is that, I forget.

We cry our sorrow and stories

of better days

of love and youth

then scrabble at the box of tissues in the middle

laughing through our sobs.