" Don peered at me again with those sad eyes,
or through me, or into me,
the way my dead do sometimes,
looking straight into their homes,
which hopefully have flowers
in a vase on a big wooden table,
and a comfortable chair or two,
and huge windows through which light
pours to wash clean and make a touch less awful
what forever otherwise will hurt. "

― Ross Gay , Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude