You’re a little afraid to poke it, this dread time capsule, so you just glower at it. And order a tequila soda, and shrink into the back of the Book Pub, and cry a hot frustrated tear of howisthisthingnotPOSSIBLYdonewithmeyet.

Then a question pops up, one you can’t dismiss: Maybe this grief is about more than the death of your sister? What else is in there … so preserved you refuse to look it in the face?