I found myself crouched down by the table, extending my hands to the sobbing boy. In a gesture that shocked me, the boy backed away, frightened, and climbed into his mother's lap. He sought the comfort of his tormentor. I barely made it home. The grief had come back, an arrow through the heart, nearly a year later.
Love is a wound.
Love is pain. Buckets, for weeks. I'm not kidding. My job was to mourn. The daffodils came up.