I am a banshee this morning.

Banshees keened to announce a death. Their stories come from old Ireland. They were the first ones to know that a death happened or was about to happen. The wailing, the keening, might have been the first knowledge that a family had of a beloved’s death. 

My keening comes from an old place inside of me; the ancient part of me. I’m not announcing a death. It already happened. It happened almost three months ago. My friends would laugh and say that it is typical of my lateness in all things. But, today, finally, his death is being acknowledge in the most raw way. I’m not trembling, I’m not sobbing. I am keening. Loud, long, and ancient.