ABSTRACT
My son is dead. How do I make sense of that? Where do I find meaning in the midst of such despair? I have buried a child who should have buried me. I have buried a child who should have had children. I should have had the chance to love those children, spoil them, tell them stories: stories I heard from my father; stories he heard from his mother; stories about births and burials; about loving and dying; about joy and suffering. Stories about being a family.
