I bought a book today, an anthology of poems about loss. There’s a poem by David Gray about dying young, and a part of it just seems so perfect to describe your tragedy.


”                                             The overture

To stifled music; year that ends in May;

The sweet beginning of a tale unknown;

A dream unspoken; promise unfulfilled;

A morning with no noon; A rose unblown-

All is deep rich vermillion crushed and killed

I’ th’ bud by frost”


Mine was not the only loss. Mine was terrible, but yours is the greater. 

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