Suddenly it was fall, the season of death, the anniversary of things-going-to-hell.

But when my mother died, I found that I did not believe that she was gone.

Writing has always been the primary way I make sense of the world.

If the condition of grief is nearly universal, its transactions are exquisitely personal.

When my mother was sick, I found myself needing to put down in my journals all sorts of things - to try to understand them, and, I think, to try to remember them.

But there is a discomfort that surrounds grief. It makes even the most well-intentioned people unsure of what to say. And so many of the freshly bereaved end up feeling even more alone.

We have an idea - a very modern idea - that dying is undignified. But I think this is because we have the illusion that we can control our bodies and our fates.