We’re talking to screens and recollecting lives lost and the subsequent damage. I tell my story, and as I begin to speak, I think it’s peculiar the emotions remain manageable. But then, I tell these strangers who you were and what you represented to me, and it all falls apart. And everyone is quiet, and I’m losing the story (a collection of events and emotions I’ve relayed so many times), and then I say something about spinning my wheels, upset — and slightly terrified — that the days aren’t getting easier and how hope isn’t a word that makes sense to me anymore.
After 90 minutes, we disconnect from our screens, and I’m proud of myself. And if you still existed in a form that could express emotions, you would be proud of me too. But soon, the sense of accomplishment fades, and I think about the strangers I met tonight and the stories they told. She was years away from her loss, but her face remained etched forlorn and frowning. “Things don’t necessarily get better. They get different.” And I tell myself, No, that won’t be you. You will wear this loss, but things will get better. I say this to myself again, but this time, the optimism isn’t there, and here come the tears.