Fiction Friday Drowning Sorrows

What is a sorrow, that it should be able to drown, I asked myself. A thing, surely, if only because it is a noun, but a thought or feeling cannot drown, surely? Yet the universe is a big place full of mysteries and so I set out to find a sorrow that could be drowned, that I could hold in my hand and place in the water or some other liquid and be shut of forever (presuming that was the purpose of drowning the sorrow).

I found sparrows and laurels and yellow things of all sorts, not quite getting the word right. I found memorials and reminiscences and monuments, and walls. Things that could be put into the water many of them, but not readily and only so as to make them wet.

I found sad people and melancholy, rainy wet days and people with their face lifted to the rain. I found people in mourning and people sorrowing for no reason anyone outside their own minds could find cause for.

I found tears and wrung cloths, wreaths, flowers, and spices, herbs and green plants and flowering plants and bight growing things, ease, relief, and cheer.... ooops, not sorrow that, surely, though one came from the prior and led to the next.

I wandered further afield and found empaths that could share sorrow as it suited them, or not, beings who used emotions as energy, troubles and tribbles and purring things offering comfort, soft things to soothe sorrow, and slow smiles and sweet wine, and .... ooops, not sorrow that in the end, either.

So I went home and read a newspaper and found that it was full of sorrows, death, crime, bad decisions, unwise choices, fates and fears and all the things that bring sorrow and I lowered into the sink and pushed it down and watched the soy ink blur, the paper go transparent. I pushed and pulled and the paper became as flakes of ash, fragile and weak and easily crushed and I tore it into shreds with a feather stroke and finally drowned the sorrows into nothing and mixed it into the soil and tucked it around a green, flowering plant and like all sorrows, it waits only a little time to turn it into melancholy and memory to make room for joy.

Okay, that one didn't quite make it into a story but the rules say don't edit, so here it is.