I just finished “Tell the Wolves I’m Home,” by Carol Rifka Brunt, which means I made it through the death scene at the end. I think I literally threw the book in front of me when I started crying. It was laid out flat at least a foot in front of me.

Maybe it’s a beautiful scene to all. All I can say, after sitting with someone on their death bed and seeing death first hand, is that this particular scene has transportive qualities. There’s this fear that hits you after. This is a time they no longer inhabit and from here on out, you can never truly receive an answer to any of the questions you have for them.

I forgot how much I missed them. That’s such an awful realization. It should be a good thing, moving on to live your life to the fullest, blah blah blah. But it hurts too.