No mother should lose her child.

Time doesn't heal, I had learned, it just keeps moving. And it takes us with it.

No one can write like Cheryl Strayed.

A sibling is the lens through which you see your childhood.

Grief doesn't have a plot. It isn't smooth. There is no beginning and middle and end.

The only language she could speak was grief. How could he not know that? Instead, she said, "I love you." She did. She loved him. But even that didn't feel like anything anymore.

Time passes and I am still not through it. Grief isn't something you get over. You live with it. You go on on with it lodged in you. Sometimes I feel like I have swallowed a pile of stones. Grief makes me heavy. It makes me slow. Even on days when I laugh a lot, or dance, or finish a project, or meet a deadline, or celebrate, or make love, it is there. Lodged deep inside of me.