When we opened the real-life memory box sent by the hospital team who took care of Isli during the last days of her short life, Ido and I finally had the chance to grieve together. Even though we knew what would be in there, and the box lived in a closet that we opened daily, we still couldn't go through with opening it for more than a year.
I cannot mourn the death of my mother-in-law. I cannot mourn her loss because I cannot mourn that which has not been lost. Her strength of love, respect, honor and grace have not been lost upon her death. They live on in all her children, but you can mostly hear them echo back from the heart beats of her youngest son.
Guns and grief are a bad combination. Our judgment is clouded and undone in moments of aggrieved passion; we are least suited at such times to take on the roles of both jury and judge, leaving aside the illegality of such vigilantism. We may, in the throes of passion, misconstrue causes and misdirect blame. But we may hope to live through such moments, and see in a calmer, clarifying light.
Your desire to understand has always been so clear. It's one of your fiercest personality traits, and sometimes you and I butt heads over it. I've always known that you would want to understand this, and while we talked, it was as if I could see the gears working in your mind while you tried to sort it all out.