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There is a particular kind of grief that arrives without announcement. No one brings a casserole. There is no bereavement leave, no socially sanctioned period of mourning, no ritual that says: this loss counts, and so does your pain. And yet here it is, sitting heavy in the chest of so many people I know — and perhaps in yours, too.

You have lived long enough to know that the world changes. You've adapted before. But this feels different — your grandchildren are laughing at something on a screen, and when you ask what's funny, the explanation only widens the distance. And somewhere underneath the confusion, there is something that feels a lot like grief.

There is a particular kind of report card comment that lives in the body long after the paper has been lost or thrown away. Not working to potential. Applied inconsistently. Could do better if she would only focus. But you were not choosing. You were trying with everything you had.

You are doing something ordinary — let's say you're making dinner — and a thought surfaces, the same one that's been surfacing for a while now. You bring it out, look at it, and you fold it up and put it back.