This is a time of senseless mourning

Three black and white pictures sit in one of the windowsills of my cottage, one is of my father and the other two are of my grandfathers. They have all been dead for nearly half my life, but still the pictures have unfailing power. Noticing them as I walk past is like gently pressing on a bruise, the soft pain that warns against more prodding. Like everyone else lucky enough to reach middle age, I know mourning never ends.

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