Emily Dickinson knows how we feel today.
It's been two days since the game, and many of us are still trying to get back to normal. I'm back at work, trying not to think about it, my feet going around mechanically, in a "wooden way." I have no desire to talk about what happened Sunday night, but I would like to share with you a poem from Emily Dickinson, who knew a thing or two about pain.
After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes
After great pain, a formal feeling comes--
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs--
The stiff heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round--
Of ground, or Air, or Ought--
A Wooden way
A Quartz contentment, like a stone--
This is the Hour of Lead--
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow--
First--Chill--then Stupor--then the letting go.