I want to hold your hand through this.
There is a certain silence that hovers around death. It's the silence that you can sense across miles of space. It is many words that don't make sense but add up to "I'm hurting." And the silence is an acceptance and understanding of this hurt. This silence does not question, it merely waits. It may wait for answers or tears or embraces. It might wait for more silence, soft, still, and comforting.
There is a certain silence in grieving that is really isolation. It is a void of nothing. It is a drug. It's tempting at first because of its emptiness. But to crawl out of this emptiness requires a grasp beyond the silence. It requires messages out of the silence. It requires effort and trying and failing.
There is a certain silence between two people who have lost ones very dear, a silence that is intensified if the losses are shared. Two can see through the clear silence to each other and sense the ache. These two can uniquely connect; a mist of clarity allows the electricity of understanding to pulse through the air.
There is a certain silence that no one can break. It is a silence because there are no words, no sounds or pictures. This silence is silence. And it is all encompassing. The silence is that of death, the silence that does not let anything escape its closed doors after living is done.