I am devoutly grateful for the lives of Will’s two older brothers who have mourned him with me and yet managed to go on.
As a child, I planted seeds every spring and knew how likely it was that, when I forgot to water them, they would never spring from the dry earth.
The art of losing, if it can even be called an art, can’t be mastered.
Like the medieval desert mendicants, holy men who lived their lives in remote caves and were sometimes fed by ravens, Will had long ago lost any interest in possessions, or any taste for food.
What is it about our world that destroys our young men?