Maybe grief was more like snow, falling and falling, taking the shape of your body. There must be some way to make peace, for grief to live on but less heavy. Snow melts to water, water lets you float.
The little girl was eating her lip-smacking chocolate. She looked at the liquid she’d pooled around her fork before tonguing the nutty layer. Eyes half shut. She made this sound like she was sucking a soother, her tongue tapping the roof of her mouth. Horrible, that little slap. I slid down the bench as far as I could without touching the knee of the next stranger, but the little smack followed. I couldn’t get away from it. And when I closed my eyes, I felt this slap inside me. The sound of dirt hitting wood, of dirt flying from shovels. I shifted back beside the girl in one long swoop and
