Death, grief.

They are the emotions that knock us to our knees,

leaving us scrambling,

blindly feeling around us, reaching out,

hoping to touch something,

anything that's recognizable,

something that can give comfort.

But everything feels different. Even the sun, the wind,

a friend's hug, sounds even ring differently in our ears. It's a time of dwelling too, though,

a time of slowing down to remember, to hold on, a time of dwelling too though a time of slowing down to remember to hold on a time of recognition

when ironically while everything does feel differently we also fill what we now see as a gaping

hole in our life with new extensions of ourselves, extensions made up of the understanding that our

life is actually more full because of the importance that person played in creating life as we

know it.

It's this irony that creates the confusion of grief, feeling empty and alone, at the same time

we recognize our life as one filled by the

very one who left that hole. The character Granger and Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451

said it most powerfully when describing his grandfather's death. Here are some of his words.

Quote, when I was a boy, my grandfather died,

and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world,

and he made toys for us, and he did a million things in his lifetime. He was always busy with his

hands, and when he died,

...