" You think you've stopped crying
And then the blues come back,
You wonder what brought them:
The red pen?
The wind in the yard?
The plaid shirt in the bank?

Your buried grief seeps to the surface,
Like oil under tar sands.

Let it go. It's the rich black residue of the past,
Dead life becomes this stuff that sticks to the soles of your feet,
Welling up when it damned well pleases.
Let it go. "

― Lise Menn