After a year has passed, I wonder if I’m in mourning, but nothing has changed. Even the expectation of change and whatever I can wring from desire are the same. Have I accepted Gretchen’s death? If not, why am I upset? I don’t understand what accepting means. It will never be acceptable. Life goes on—and it should go on. Time goes on—but I don’t understand time. I know that events are not affected by whether we accept them. When a vase breaks, you can pick up the pieces and glue them together; wilted flowers can be replaced; but I loved Gretchen in all her particularity, and this I cannot have to console me, I cannot have to give or receive, I cannot have her to be with, I cannot have her to share my soul.