Here’s a word. Bereavement. Or, Bereaved. Bereft. It’s from the Old English bereafian, meaning ‘to deprive of, take away, seize, rob’. Robbed. Seized. It happens to everyone. But you feel it alone. Shocking loss isn’t to be shared, no matter how hard you try. ‘Imagine,’ I said, back then, to some friends, in an earnest attempt to explain, ‘imagine

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Jean thought of grief like a pet almost. A couple of times a day you had to take it out for a walk and let your thoughts wander and see if anything happened. Or sit quietly in the kitchen with some food to nibble and think about the person. Hold them close to you in your mind. In your heart. Stroke their hair. Blow on their soup for them. It’s what

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