He may take long walks
in the raining dark
almost aimlessly
to a spot of soaked grass
in a neighbor’s open field.
He’s decided this is the place
for you and him to meet again.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

It takes a year, nephew... a full turn of the calendar, to get over losing someone.

Sometimes, there was no getting over it. Sometimes, you lived with the empty place inside of you until you imploded on it, loss as singularity, or until the empty place expanded and hollowed out the rest of you so thoroughly you became the walking dead, a ghost in your own life.

There is an hour, a minute - you will remember it forever - when you know instinctively on the basis of the most inconsequential evidence, that something is wrong. You don't know - can't know - that it is the first of a series of "wrongful" events that will culminate in the utter devastation of your life as you have known it.

The weird, weird thing about devastating loss is that life actually goes on. When you're faced with a tragedy, a loss so huge that you have no idea how you can live through it, somehow, the world keeps turning, the seconds keep ticking.