Can my prayer reach his suffering?

He sat alone at the table, palms pressed together like hands praying, shoulders hunched, and chin resting on the tips of his fingers. He stared into space a million galaxies away. Together since kids, bonded in marriage, and hammered in trial, we faced grief like two strangers on a separate road.

In that poignant poise, I saw crevices in the map of his face I’d missed before, blinded by building cataracts of sorrow in my own eyes.

“He’s suffering too,” I thought, and like an opening door, what hid behind came into view.

In my hugging gut-grief, I overlooked the anguish in his. I neglected our oneness.

Equilibrium sought to right itself during…

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