Not much to say

I just typed out there's not much to say in answer to a friend's anguished question to me regarding the death of dear Maggie this past weekend. And that's the damn truth. I think about Maggie and my friend Sally, her mother, nearly every moment. I opened my eyes this morning and wondered how Sally was opening hers. I think about my Sophie and her own fragility. I think about the fact that she's going weeks without seizures for the first time in her life and what that would mean if she were to suddenly die. I think about Oliver's cry, not too long ago, what is it all for? I think about the Buddhist tenets of suffering, of clinging and not-clinging. I think of the men and women of Wall Street, those that I read of today, the several that I actually know, their secret society where they dress up, act out, mock those that have less, exalt their own goddamned positions. What is there to say about that? I think of the pink Japanese magnolia petals against the blue sky and how the pink curls at the ends into white then brown then falls then rots. I crush it between my fingers, and it stinks, but only faintly. There's the memory of scent behind the decay. But there's not much, and I really don't know what to say.