There is a kind of grief that does not arrive all at once.

It is not the grief of emergency rooms, flashing lights, doctors asking you to sit down, or the terrible instant when your body understands something your mind is still refusing to accept.

That grief is brutal, but at least it has a beginning.

You can point to the moment and say:

That was when everything changed.

The grief I had carried for thirteen years was different.

It came afterward.

After the funeral flowers died.

After the casseroles stopped arriving.

After friends returned to their normal lives.

After the world continued moving, even though mine had split apart.

That kind of grief simply moves into your life.

It becomes part of breakfast.

Part of driving to work.

Part of Tuesday afternoons.

Part of breathing.

I had lived with it for thirteen years.

My daughter Emily was gone.

My husband Carl had left three days after her funeral.