Grief is like fame. We expect individuals to be transformed by it, to occupy a room in a different way, as if the experience of tragedy is somehow physically altering. But Auralice isn’t bigger or shinier, or more crumpled or wrinkled, or different in any way that I can see that day. She looks just the same, and she plays in the pool, bouncing in the water under a gray monsoon sky, sometimes even laughing.
