“Love…” Our voice trailed off. Between Muungano and music, we already had two loves that required most of our time and heart. A relationship had to compete for space and voice, which was unfair unless they were already in the work or art.

“Always comes at a cost.” Bayard placed his hand on our shoulder, squeezing it once. The touch had a weight about it, as if channeling his emi to ground us. He opened his mouth, hesitant. Careful not to say any more than we were ready to engage. “Is all of this about Anyah?”

Anyah. We let the name ring loud in our mind while ignoring how our heart bottomed out. Her death still weighed on us. When it comes to tragedy in the space, we often wonder what role we might have played in the cause. If we could have done anything better.

“There are several hundred million spread throughout Muungano. The bigger the society, the more difficult it is to maintain rich relationships. But none of us need to be alone. Or go through anything alone.”

We turned away, unable to meet his eyes. Any part of him. The question stripped us, leaving us too exposed to an uncaring universe. “We don’t know what to do with all our feelings.”

“Right now, they are probably like a brush fire that you have to let burn itself out.” He pointed to a shimmering portrait on the wall. “I don’t claim to be an expert in relationships, but I do love this image. An ancient Egyptian papyrus painting of Ramses II presenting lotus flowers, symbols of rebirth and resurrection, to Hathor, the goddess of love, joy, and music. She gives him the ankh, the key of life. This is what it means to be in love.”

“I loved her.” We could think of no other way to describe the weight in our chest, so we named it love. Relationships were exchanges of energy, so we were careful who we let in, not wanting toxic energy to settle in. We attracted the things and people we needed even before we realized we needed them. With the same vibration. With the same type of energy. That energy came out in the music.

“Sometimes love isn’t enough.” Bayard paused to reconsider. “Sometimes the love of others isn’t enough, not if you’re not in a place to receive it. To be transformed by it. Some of us can’t escape the gravity well of our own history of hurts. Each of us are worthy of dignity and divinity. Hear that. Remember that. Act like that until you can feel that.”

We had no room for any of his platitudes, no matter the truth to them. We never escaped grief’s shadow. Saying nothing, we stood and departed.