I am driving a back road where there are still farms, fenced cattle, tobacco barns. I can’t describe my grief, unless it’s like marching into a lost war, folding clothes by numbers, waiting in rank for breakfast beneath the steamy electric lights before dawn, crawling in a cave that hasn’t been mapped. I round a curve and see two birds flapping in the road. One has been hit by a car, and its mate flutters just above, wild to inspire its fallen partner’s flight. When Anna was ill, I would have seen her as the fallen bird, injured in the road, as I hovered, watching her struggles, urging her to fly on broken wings. But now she is gone, with our marathon conversations, her startling questions. And I don’t know which of those two birds I am.