A/N: I should go to bed, but I HAD to write this first.
And if they ask you, what is tragedy? you will not tell them. You will show them your memories in all the defiance of grief, as the defeated cast down their weapons at the end of the war.
For tragedy is this: a text message that hits you in less than a dozen words—quietly, she went quietly in her sleep—and tragedy is the weight of the coffin, its edge against your shoulder, and you are almost a century old and you should not be strong enough to carry it.
Maybe you are not. But you carry it anyway, and that is tragedy.
...
Maybe tragedy is this: you know your best friend's mother's name, and you know his smile. You know pain and cold and pain again, and they made you forget so much but you do not forget every kill (any kill), every heartbeat that ticked out like a grenade, ending in a blast of silence.
Tragedy is when you leave him again, because it is better, and he saved you, he did save you—you want him to know that—but even he cannot keep you safe.
...
Tragedy is the memory of your brother, your heart, gone. Tragedy is when he is not there to hold your power back, to take your hand because he is not afraid of you.
Tragedy is running, for your own good and everyone else's.
...
Tragedy is this: you cannot bring them back again. You can paint a picture to make the world believe, rewrite the history books but not the history. Tragedy is that you did not tell your father that you loved him, tragedy is that you did not know that it was the moment you should.
And if they ask you, what is tragedy? you would not tell them.
For you recognize that road.
You know where it leads.