Many Americans don't mourn in public anymore—we don't wear black, we don't beat our chests and wail. We may—I have done it—weep and rail privately, in the middle of the night. But we don't have the rituals of public mourning around which the individual experience of grief were once constellated.
Instead there is the expectation of an organized process of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, and then a prompt return to daily life. Of being strong, and time healing all wounds.
Well, for now I am staying put- in the same apartment we lived in together, in my bed. I am writing.