It's and old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died and so we shared that, too.

It's and old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died and so we shared that, too.

What do you do when the story changes in midlife? When a tale you have told yourself turns out to be a little untrue, just enough to throw the world off-kilter? It’s like leaving the train at the wrong stop: You are still you, but in a new place, there by accident or grace, and you will need your wits about you to proceed.

The only education in grief that any of us ever gets is a crash course. Until Caroline had died I had belonged to that other world, the place of innocence, and linear expectations, where I thught grief was a simple, wrenching realm of sadness and longing that graduallu receded. What that definition left out was the body blow that loss inflicts, as well as the temporary madness, and a range of less straightforward emotions shocking in their intensity.

Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.

That she was irreplaceable became a bittersweet loyalty: Her death was what I had now instead of her.

the mother's first job is to raise a daughter strong enough to outlast her.