I want to write her a story. I want to write a story so that she will know she is not alone. For I suspect she feels that way. Or rather, that her feelings on the deaths she has experienced lately obscure from the fact that loneliness is what we are left with when we loose what we love. And this, regardless of how surrounded by other loves we are. I want to write stories that she will read, that will convey that loneliness can be celebrated, that there is indeed something sacred in loss. But I cannot. It is specifically because I have lost that I know the celebration of loss is singular to all and that it cannot be taught but by experience. Awful painful experience. And so I would hold her through the loneliness as futile as it is, and reassure her and reassure myself by saying it will all get better. But what I mean without her knowing is: “you will learn to love the loneliness which you hate now. One day you will welcome it in complicated friendship and you and it will make your peace.” If I could write a story for her, it would have an ending appeasing in its bitterness, in which love is understood to necessairly result in loneliness but that learning to be alone in love is the most rewarding of losses.