The letter from the Gift of Hope organ donation organization arrived. White 8 by 11. Thick, like the ones you got when you knew you'd been accepted by a college.

I know that right inside there are what I thought were the answers....to my healing, to my relief, to some way to assuage this agony. What was printed on those pages, I was completely convinced was my path out of this darkness. I know there are names and ages and answers to questions I thought I was desperately asking. But that was a couple of days ago. And one thing I've learned about this terrible business of grief is that feelings, even ones that feel rock solid, are just waves. Ideas that seem utterly concrete, thoughts you believe are literally keeping you alive, are all just waves. Just ideas. Just thoughts. They move, sway, change, blow away. Days later, minutes later, seconds.

I know what I said. I know what I wrote. I know how absolutely certain I was. I went to that mailbox a thousand times a day. I KNEW I'd tear it open and get on a plane and find them all and all that. Turns out, I can't. Not now. Maybe not ever. Can't open it. Can't look at it. Can't do it.