I have the best friend. We’ll call her S. The other day we were driving around in Michael’s car, which had been parked in the garage for about a month. At some point S. took over the driving, and we were chatting, and I was looking out the window. Then, I just put my hand on her thigh. But not her thigh but his thigh, because that’s what we would do—for almost fifteen years—he would drive and I would rest my hand on his thigh. I almost instantly realized my mistake—this habit, now wrong—and S. just knew why without me saying anything. And we both burst into tears.
And aren’t I lucky to have someone who helps me carry my grief?