I feel like the best way to describe the odyssey of grief I’ve been on since my mom died nine years ago is that it’s like how it felt to drive from Pittsburgh to Austin and back that one time. Or how it might feel to build a treehouse. Tedious. Somehow both sleepy and sharp-edged. But not impossible, because I had directions. A path. Of course, there’s no one way to grieve. There are wrong ways, but no right ways. But most people have either experienced a parent dying, or will eventually. And witnessing how other people deal — plus the slight but still real comfort of knowing you’re not alone — is a template.