It is most peculiar how grief affects you differently each time. My infant sister died when I was seven, and I remember every moment leading up to the funeral with a clarity that throws the rest of my childhood into darkness. Since hearing about Stephen, however, I am aware of time only as a blur of images. In billets, I saw a worm in the earth, an innocent thing in a flower bed, and I was struck suddenly with a blinding vision of Stephen, whose face I knew so well—and the worms don’t distinguish—you and I know that.
