Whereupon feeling for the first time the cold bitterness of grief, I looked around the graveyard, turning away from the platitudes at my great-grandmother's grave. The sweeping gaze of my weeping eyes was returned by cold surnames names symmetrically stamped on stone reliquaries used repeatedly to mark the dead and gone. So unrelenting were those losses, row by row, up the hill and then some.
I was thirteen, and well old enough to understand. The sadness would always be the same shared thing, forever, but mine was my own.
In the end, I cried just like everyone else.
No expression of love should ever be called cliche. Would we ever dare say that our grieving is so passe'?
My great-grandmother was one hundred and one years old when we laid her in the clay. I can still remember how it felt to kiss her old wrinkled cheek.
It was lovely.
Now, you go on and love brilliantly and make it your own.