The Notebook

I filled a notebook with questions.

The same desperate interrogation:

Why did it happen. Why couldn't I stop it.

Why didn't I see it coming.

Page after page of investigation.

I was convinced there was a reason,

a way the thing would make sense

if I just asked the right question.

My grandmother said once—

I was young, she was older,

both of us lost—

"You don't have to understand something

to let it go."

I hated that then.

It felt like permission to be wrong,

permission to stop fighting,

permission to accept a world

that breaks for no reason.

So I kept asking.

The notebook kept filling.

I was looking for the logic

of a thing with no logic,

trying to understand

the point where it fractured,

as if understanding

could stitch it back.

Last week I closed it.

Not because I found an answer.

Not because anything made sense.

Just tired.

And her voice came back—

not comforting, but exact:

you don't have to understand it

to let it go.

You just have to stop looking.