There are two kinds of crying we do for the dead. There are the tears of loneliness when a sudden memory reminds us our dead are never coming home again. And then there is the crying we do in the oppressive hours of darkness and it is the sound the soul makes when it is bereft and broken and empty.
Grief is a predatory bird riding your smooth high calmness, far from the surface you show the world. It strikes you when you’re not looking, usually when you think you’re doing good. Grief is a stalking entity; it circles and it waits and it watches so that it may strike with precision, without warning, without mercy. Once it has you, you might as well be dead.