Six weeks ago my wife walked into our living room to find me curled up on the couch, sobbing. In our twenty-one years of marriage we had experienced a lot of griefs, big and little, but she’d never seen me cry like this.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down next to me.
“It’s my mom,” I said.
My mother had died twenty years before, in April 2001. Yet there I was, sobbing as if she’d died that afternoon, and with so much more emotion than I’d experienced at the time of her death.
