memory is both the curse of grief and the eventual talisman against it; what at first seems unbearable becomes the succor that can outlast pain.

The truth, or success, of any writer's story lies partly in its specificity and its emotional honesty.

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

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

I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures.

The only education in grief that any of us ever gets is a crash course.

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.