I have always despised the word closure. While I recognize that there are moments when the quest for closure is appropriate, the word itself has evolved into the kind of jargon that is dismissed as psychobabble as the populace concludes that each and every tragedy can be cured/dismissed/completed if just as soon as the victims find closure. The demands for closure work well in our 24-hour-news-cycle world, as we seek to tie our reactions into a neat little emotional bow. Rend your garments if you must, just make sure your ready to appear buttoned down and ready to move on at the top of the hour. Gnashing of teeth will be tolerated but for a moment. Smile and tell us all about how you achieved closure so that we can dust ourselves off and be about our business.
We have forgotten the ancient art of lament. We have little time for the practices that express our outrage, give voice to our grief, or enact our horror; practices which move us beyond the mere words of closure; practices that in and of themselves provide a strange balm to sooth our grief.
Today, I have no words with which to confront the horror of injustice, only my continued lament for the racism that infects the darkness of our existence. So, while the media broadcasts their ongoing quest for closure, my cries of lament are driven deeper into my soul by song.