Columns | Wander, Woman

The Curious Language of Grief

I don’t think I cried over his death for a long time. I wondered if something was wrong with me. I hadn’t realized that we have to learn how to cry.

This isa column by Gabrielle Bellot about books, the body, memory, and more.

One day, when our teacher was out of the classroom, a boy got up out of his seat and picked up one of the coffee-brown folding chairs that was leaning against the back wall. The chairs were thick, heavy metal. The boy folded it up, held it aloft by its legs like a cricket bat, and began to tiptoe to the front of the classroom, where another boy was standing with his back to the room, chatting with someone. The boy with the chair put a finger to his mouth as people began to gesture and gasp. A moment later, he swung the chair hard into the back of the standing boy, the impact resounding through the room.

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