“A windower may arrive… not the guide you imagine but the one you have” A Review of Windower by Michael Loughran

Grief is a natural consequence of caring for others, but culturally, we avoid this unpleasant reality. Grief is a topic that eludes otherwise experienced writers; the raw power the misery of death inflicts can reduce prose into limp platitudes. It’s difficult to look at grief, much less discuss it. Grief overtakes the body; it folds and rips mourners into tiny pieces. Grief spares nothing, no part of us. Death is awful, and it’s worse to be left behind. How can anyone bear to talk about something so awful?

Windower discusses grief with a steady, unwavering focus, and seems to accomplish this by surrendering entirely to its corrosion. Centered around Loughran’s late wife’s suicide, Windower stands apart from other attempts at tackling what’s left after a sudden and traumatic loss with its clear-eyed intensity and frank hopelessness. Loughran doesn’t provide any false comfort, rather, he invites the reader to share the pain with him. Loughran expertly avoids falling into the trap of trivializing loss by jailing it in the internal mindscape, finding opportunities to externalize his torment. Grief stretches its decaying fingers into all aspects of his life, and through a strong internal arc, Loughran represents the truth of grief’s reach without becoming stale or repetitive. Grief manifests in tangible symbols throughout the poem, such as furniture left in a storage unit, metal music, and other works of art like poetry or paintings that Loughran finds emotionally impactful. These act as footholds for the audience, guiding them through the abstracts of grief, and they characterize Loughran as a person and also as a mourner.

“Grief doesn’t get better, it just gets further away,” is a maxim occasionally used to soothe new mourners, as much as they can be soothed. In Windower, Loughran doesn’t give you the reprieve of stepping back from grief; he drags you into the depths of mourning with him and holds you there. This merciless attention could become exhausting or even inaccessible if not handled with expert care, but Loughran suspends the reader in a constant state of interest intertwined with despair. His writing is ornate but precise, and he winds through dense emotions, drowning waves of grief, and complex situations gracefully. Loughran’s commitment to opening his chest to the reader requires the us to fall headfirst into his world, and therefore, into his agony.

Although the beginning anecdote of Loughran’s awkward and accidental presence at MJ’s grandfather’s sudden funeral can disorient a reader at first, it quickly earns its keep. The idea of the Windower as a figure is established, explained, and justified in this key early experience. Loughran presents himself in this initial chapter as someone with divine knowledge to guide new mourners across the thin ice of grief, and in turn, reassures readers who have yet to experience this deep wound of loss or who are in the wake of mourning themselves. The surreal moments can trip a reader up initially, but Loughran manages to convey the unreality and disorientation that follows a traumatic loss without confusing the reader or losing sight of his narrative. By the end, we are more than comfortable with the balance struck between the mythic and the real in this work.

Loughran uses the voice of a monk continuously probing and degrading him to force questions and realizations to the surface that he otherwise would instinctually bury. The monk haunts Loughran in his most vulnerable moments, demanding bloody truths right when Loughran most wants to lie. At a key point in the essay, when Loughran can no longer avoid the growingly distressing details of Noelle’s death, the monk delivers the final blow that breaks down Loughran’s emotional walls. The monk questions “what kind of person writes beautifully about suicide,” lining up the punch of Loughran’s answer: “A monster.” This back and forth relives Loughran of some of the full force of grief, allowing his feelings to shine through active dialogue rather than flat and sentimental musing.

Loughran also utilizes the idea of Greek Furies, specifically from Oresteia by Aeschylus to add texture to the misery of grief. The Furies chase after Loughran throughout the entire work, always threatening to rip love out of his hands or destroy the trembling sense of safety he managed to assemble after Noelle’s death. This culminates in a confrontation between him and the furies at the end of the essay that expertly allows the hope of his new partner MJ to grow and bloom from his past marriage. This climax emphasizes and nurtures the love he feels for MJ without taking away the grief or love he still carries for Noelle. By defending himself from the Furies, the essay ends with a sense of reprieve without making any grandiose and ultimately untrue claims about grief, and without diminishing the painful trek that led Loughran and the readers to this point.

Windower does exactly what it sets out to, providing readers with a window to Loughran’s grief, offering refuge for his readers where they can feel the sorrow alongside him, finding connection and meaning. Loughran is unflinching in his dedication to rendering grief in a poetic yet tangible way, and this allows Windower to be a pleasant and life-altering experience. Without falling into inaccessible sentimentality or squeamish avoidance, Loughran comforts those who have been similarly decimated by grief and provides wisdom for those who haven’t. Loughran’s essay comforts mourners as though he’s a close friend or a prophet, he promises us that for all the pain and destruction, there is a way to write about loss that is meaningful. Grief can be artful, lyrical, and even beautiful without being mangled or minimized by our own denial and fear.

Grace Morris is primarily focused on weaving horror into every piece they write, even the love poems. Working in both poetry and fiction, Grace explores queer issues, grief, and trauma through evocative and unique language. Grace graduated cum laude with a degree in English and a minor in Spanish at Metropolitan State University of Denver, and they are currently studying poetry at Syracuse University. Their poetry has been published in two issues of the Metrosphere, and on the Metrosphere website. Grace firmly believes that any subject worth exploring should be explored in a weird and off-putting way.