For me, grief is like waking up every day in a different house. I feel as though I ought to know my way around by now—I have been grieving for my father for more than two years—but find that I am continually losing my bearings, struggling to learn the layout anew. I will walk through a door in my mind that I didn’t even notice the day before, trip over a memory I’ve relived a thousand times, and it’s as if I were seeing the space around me, breathing in this hushed loneliness, for the first time.
