“That first year, my grief-year, I could hardly believe what had happened. I carried my story outside of me, like a heavy, sharp, awkward object. It was impossible and ungainly, always scratching at my hands or dropping with an ugly thud on my big toe. I lugged that tale through the heat of summer, the colors of autumn, the snows of winter, and the rebirth of spring before I made enough space for it inside of myself. It’s not a puzzle, you know. No amount of shoving can make that huge pointy weight fit into a neat little empty space, and no amount of turning could fit back
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