International Conference on Inflammation of the Eye

Above the hotel gate, I saw a sign: “International Conference on Inflammation of the Eye” for those who have cried too much or not cried enough. All of them with name tags on their lapels

like temporary nameplates in a cemetery or markers

in a botanical garden.

They approach one another as if sniffing, as if checking, Who are you where are you from and when

was the last time you cried.

The subject of the morning session is “Sobbing:

The end of Crying or the Way It Begins.” Sobbing

as soul-stuttering and griefstones. Sobbing

as a valve or a loop that links cry to cry,

a loop that unravels easily, like a hair ribbon,

and the crying—hair that fans out in profusion, glorious. Or a loop that pulls into an impossible knot— sobbing like an oath, a testimony, a cure.

Back in their cubicles, the women translators are busy translating fate to fate, cry to cry. At night they come home, scrub the words from their lips, and with sobs of happiness they start loving, their eyes aflame with joy.

Yehuda Amichai (2000, p. 147)

This speaks to a dynamic in our friendship I don't know how to articulate but is there and present.

I love you brother.