Father Andrew is handing out yellow sheets, like our Bulletin; he drops a few on the floor and I help him pick them up, like an acolyte(!) Then he whispers to me to go on my way. "I'll be alright."
I am in a group like the Grief Support Group of Father Andrew's. I see Nevena (his daughter) but she does not look like herself. I know that she has endured many changes and I want to ask her how she managed, since I too had so many changes in my life. But a noisy 3-year-old (Ryan) needs to be carried and comforted, so I carry him outside, and when I return there is no more opportunity to ask her the question.
(Awoke with heart beating fast, but soon quieted.)