This has, at times, crossed my mind, and seems to me to be about the worst hell on earth a soul could experience. Inconceivable, but real for many people.
There remains some 90,000 missing souls registered in
The National Missing and Unidentified Persons System (NamUs)
with smiling photos, dental contacts, tattoos, birthmarks, titanium implants—
some are never found ever never found never (never) ever found
and for their grievers, their remains their remains buried God knows where
and their remains are house ghosts, empty chairs, barren beds, vacant closets.
I ask this Sunday Morning, rain drenching Crape Myrtle blossoms
(sirens blaring) about their prayers for mercy, for deliverance, for THE call
That never (ever) comes. I wonder: years, decades later
do they still pray to God “Where? How? Why?” Does the Comforter’s words
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted” bridge over their abyss?
When grief batters and buffets in darkness drear, who can sooth and assuage?
At church the organ plays majestic tones.
Those Christian souls turn to their hymn book page
And hum above their suffering hearts’ moans.
Anguish has scabbed but duller pain resides.
The links of life have broken as they age,
But friends of love and longing abide.
Their hearts still yearn for them, their smiling face
But hope in the Lamb opens grief’s cage:
Someday they shall embrace in heaven’s grace.