...is so fluid.
I had the rare pleasure of more than 24 hours with a favorite cousin.  She is almost the age my mother would be, but not quite.  We have history...

Once, when I was in high school and my mother needed to be in hospital, I was sent to stay far across the city at her house.
She commenced educating me for real that first night:  a glass of sherry, a brief history of classical music (remember record players and LP's?)  then poetry:  T.S. Elliot, Emily Dickenson, William Butler Yeats.
She took a book from the shelf and challenged:  "I bet you can't understand a word of the first sentence of this book."  
I could not imagine a sentence in English that I would not understand---until she opened Finnegan's Wake.  ¿?#!
(I never forgot that, nor the adjacent book:  Skeleton Key to Finnegan's Wake, by Joseph Campbell.  When I had the opportunity to study with him years later, I grabbed it.)
The next morning, she woke me gently before dawn so I could get to school on time.
"Cough," she ordered.  I did.
"You can't go to school today: you're coughing.  Go back to sleep."
I did.

Now, after the recent death of her very dear husband, she is reorienting to life without her love.
I know this path.  As far as I know there is nothing anyone can say that makes it better, or easier, or more comprehensible.  It must be lived, and the living of these days carves out places inside that hold the impossible feelings.  I don't remember anything said that helped.  It was simple presence of friends, even if only witnessing, that made room for the smallest beginning of healing...

Thank you.