Whatever’s in there seems to be filling the space — which makes no sense, because you have written thousands of words about grief. You’ve had hundreds of conversation, sung so many songs. You’ve known grief as a frozen pond, as a knife, grief like a flood plain, grief like a persistent child. You have wrung. this. grief. towel. dry. And yet, today, here it sits. It’s uninvited, and impenetrable, and fully saturated. It’s fucking annoying. (And why is it a box?)