Grief attacks the heart. Wind pushes in strangely regular waves through treetops—no, it’s the gasp of a university building’s ventilation system. And a dog unseen passes by, tags jingling. Out of habit or reverence I return to the water, still tonight, the light posts casting long rippling doubles of themselves across its surface. I feel alone. The heart sinks under repeated blows, riding lower and lowe in the chest until it’s in my bowels, leaping up again hurting my against the diaphragm. I can’t breathe. But the air is quiet and the waves are calm. Alone, small, with the world.