At some point I remember to grieve for John. It doesn't overwhelm me, not at first; I just feel an itch, a realization that I should take some time off my feet and sit with my friend's death. But when I sit, and clear my mind and let it happen, the sorrow crushes my throat and lungs like iron bands, curls me into a tight ball like a louse and presses on my back like God's own fingernail. I gouge ragged runnels in my right wrist and rock and croak until it passes. But it doesn't pass. And it doesn't pass. And then it passes.