One of the hardest things was being patient with the process of loss after my aunt died. No matter how tired I felt sometimes with the gray cloud or the wrenching loss or the social inconvenience of grief, I could not rush things along or stop paying attention. Even when I came to what seemed like an “end,” both to the process and the writing, something kept drawing me on – my heart kept lurching in her direction – the little letters kept wanting to be written. I decided to keep watch, to jot down what was unfolding and see where it led. I began to trust the process, even though it felt long and repetitive. I found that grief had a timing of its own, and I wanted to follow that ragged, luminous trail to whatever the end of the journey turned out to be.