We know that grief isn't empty. We know it is sated with the things that we wish weren't part of our flesh, this moving vessel that floats so close to us, so near this, our living, that, as it passes, we unload our apprehended breath and dance… until it comes `round again. When my friend told me of her daughter’s passing, I was sick for days, and I imagined, if this news pushed through me like infection, what gait it must have granted those that loved her, the eternal flood of sorrow in this still twisting unreachable, the ferociousness of unrequited anger… The boat will come round again. But the shoreline will be bare of sweet Sondi, save for the light glancing off the water. We know that grief isn’t empty. We know it spills over into our lives with vigorous abandon leaving untold pain. It has teeth and arms and legs and lips and hands, and it waits upon no one, yet we wait upon its course like a winter storm, laughter and joy, unbridled as it falls.
(The Weaver's Song)