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For the one who kept vigil
in a room with so many machines,
the one whose thoughts were interrupted
by each beep,
and each shift change,
the stillness of Silent Saturday
comes as both a relief and a tormenter.

In the empty space where the
institutional sounds used to be,
moments of relief give birth to
pangs of guilt.
The harsh quiet of this day
is the reality of grief,
the stark loneliness of one
whose life has changed forever,
even as everyone else
goes about their business as usual.

For the one who poured out oceans of tears
for weeks and months,
whose questions of “How long?”
and “Am I strong enough?”
seemed to go unanswered,
Holy Saturday arrives as a parched desert,
dry eyes,
aching heart,
the invisible grief of one
who has mourned and wept
until the well was dry.

For the vigil keeper,
the caregiver,
the displaced,
the many-days griever,
the silence of Saturday
opens wide and draws them in,
every part of them,
like the darkness
of fertile soil
engulfing every seed,
every hurt,
every heartbreak,
with its embrace.