She was no longer going to feel pain, or loss, or emptiness. She was no longer going to feel.

She used to believe that we had each other's voices. That God had made it so I could look after my sister in any circumstance. Even by putting her to sleep at night.

Grief, we know where we've been. We know where we want to be.

Grieving is an expression of gratitude, and that expression doesn't have to be rushed.

It’s okay to cry. Giving in to the tears is terrifying,
like freefalling to earth without a parachute. But it’s vital to our wellbeing as we process the deep anguish.

She did not belong to the healthy group of widows and widowers who, after mourning, would nurture the seed of their grief into growing from loss—perhaps continuing the dreams of the lost, or learning to cherish alone the things they’d cherished together.

She belonged instead to the sad lot who clung to grief, who nurtured it by never moving beyond it. They’d shelter it deep inside where the years padded it in saudade layers like some malignant pearl.