Rahul spends over thirteen minutes every night on a balcony with himself, batting around improbable solutions to the world’s ills, fending off ghastly mental images, and–most astonishing of all–occasionally lapsing into a shared, perfect silence. No notion is too ridiculous to contemplate.
“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing full well the words are worthless. An apology can’t raise the dead or ameliorate pain or even get you drunk.
“Although, i guess you get that a lot.”
He’s also sorry for allowing conversation to take a turn for the grim.
“Conventional wisdom would have us believe grief is a process. Five stages–grueling though they may be–and you’re done. Like earning a merit badge or beating a video game. But more and more I’m inclined to think it’s something you simply have to learn to live with.”