She feels like the pain is going to eat her alive, every thump of her heart like words scorched into her soul. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, they say. Looking away from Marysieńka, she clutches at her chest as if she could wrench open her rib cage and empty out all the emotions. “How did you do it?” she asks hoarsely. “Do what?” “Endure. After… after I… after he…” “After Tomasz died?” Marysieńka says it kindly, without vitriol. “I don’t know. I simply went on, day by day. Grief is a bit like a chronic ache, I think—it’s always there, but sometimes you notice it more and sometimes less, and
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