During Xtha-cka Zhi-ga The-the, the Killer of Flowers Moon. I will wade across the river of the blackfish, the otter, the beaver. I will climb the bank where the willow never dies.

Firemen have a culture of death. There are rituals, carefully constructed for the living, to process the dead.

who wants flowers when youre dead? nobody.

That night there was more than one killer in the forest, the next day a lot more ghosts.--The Book of Brin

No truth can cure the sorrow we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see it through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sorrow that comes to us without warning.

This is why the deepest form of pain comes out as silence.