I Make Jokes When I’m Devastated

If you walk the stations of the cross, most tour guides
will politely point out the spot where they think Jesus
may have fallen or the spot where
he may have met his mother.
This holy place may have been a few meters west
or possibly in that gift shop over there.
We live in a world of “close enough”:
The missiles that fell on the village
did not directly hit my grandmother’s
childhood home, but they were close enough.
The Russian invaders claimed they did not mean
to bomb Babyn Yar, but their shells were close enough.
My great-grandmother wasn’t that Jewish,
but she was close enough. When you ask me for
another response to tragedy, I tend to begin with a joke. Which isn’t
exactly the shape of sorrow, but I assure you,
it is close enough.