Saul Bellow wrote, “Losing a parent is something like driving through a plate-glass window. You didn’t know it was there until it shattered, and then for years to come you’re picking up the pieces.” I felt like I’d collected all the big, easy-to-reach, obvious ones. The splinters, though, will definitely take a while—the rest of my life, perhaps. I could feel them beneath my skin as I paused with my sisters in this cool, shady glen, orphaned at last among the pussytoes.
