I stood in the card aisle, fingering poetic missives on embossed papers, struck by the inappropriateness of many of the messages. Regretful words spouting synthetic wisdom disguised as empty platitudes. In the rawness of the moment it hardly seems adequate lacing bereavement with the pragmatism of things being meant to be.

I know the recipients, but not well enough to profess a relationship, unless tolerance has an expanded meaning of which I am unaware. Finally, I call the Better Half for insight. Is he religious? I know she is. Apparently, if he wasn’t, he is now. It makes finding the right message less of a minefield A sympathy card should accommodate the needs of the recipient, not the dogma, or lack thereof, of the sender.

Loss can inspire embracing religion, or the denouncing it. I’m judging merely observing. Peace is seldom found in a centralized location. The quest for reason is a recurring plight of the human condition; whether it be in the form of spiritual or scientific explanations. We feel more closure when we can identify the cause (or place blame) on what produced the effect. Even if the effect is an unintended consequence. But a loss is hardly a consequence. It is a name, a face, a missed opportunity, and a dark hole in an aching heart.

When my sister was a toddler, she would with a tissue box completely captivated by the notion, that once you removed one, another would take its place. She would discard tissue after tissue until my exasperated mother took the box away.

Living in a region with clearly defined seasons has the same effect on me. The dramatic transformation between winter and spring still holds my undivided attention.