The thing about old wounds is that they do not announce themselves. They surface on ordinary days, without warning, and you find yourself standing in a grocery store holding a jar of pasta sauce and feeling a grief you thought you had finished with.
It happened to me on a Thursday in December.
I was in the supermarket near the studio, buying things for the dinner I was making that evening because we had reversed the cooking schedule this week due to Marcus's site visits. I was in the pasta aisle, which is where it happened, because apparently my nervous system associated pasta with crisis, and I started to cry.
Not dramatically. Just quietly, standing in the aisle, the jar in my hand and the tears running and no way to explain it to the man who was politely trying to reach the shelf beh
