Shall I tell you about my father?
Shall I tell you how brave he was, how brainy, how big-hearted, how honest and warm and fearless and loving? I have stories, a bursting heart full of them.
Or, shall I tell you about my grief?
He has been gone a full year now but it has not become a sorrow yet. It still a raw grief. I don’t like this grief. It is an ugly grief, graceless, shameless, festering and enduring. It rips me apart at most inopportune moments. Nothing I do diminishes its rage.
Perhaps it would be better to say nothing.