That is one thing grief does to me. It makes me want to make you understand. It makes me want you to understand. I want you to understand. But you, statistically, cannot. You forget that my son died. Then you remember. Then you forget again. I don’t forget. I don’t hanker for much about Victorian times, but the idea of wearing all black following the death of someone you love makes a lot of sense to me. For a while, anyway, I’d have liked you to know, even from across the street or through a telescope, that I am grieving.
