Think of grief as a siege. Despair has you surrounded and outnumbered. Your defenses are stretched thin. And despair isn't just sitting at the gates waiting for you to give up. It's growing – invading your thoughts, taking the little bits of normalcy you still have and making every effort to break your ranks.

The last week or so has been rough for both of us, and I suspect we're starting to realize that the last few weeks weren't a break from our lives; they are our lives, and that we can't take a break because there isn't one.

Our grief counselor has warned that eventually someone will, without meaning to, say The Wrong Thing to one of us. The Wrong Thing isn't intended to punch you in the gut, but that doesn't mean you don't feel the sting.

Sonya and I are wading back into the real world. Each of us has gone back to work. We do laundry, we run the dishwasher, we pay bills and buy groceries. The mechanics of “regular” life are all the same as before, but they feel different now.

Obituaries are mostly about chronicling a person's life – where they worked and went to school, who they married, their hobbies. “Loved travel and knitting.” “Beloved wife of 30 years.” “Founded downtown boat store.” What do you write about people who didn't get to do any of that?