Grief is a pit I’ve yet to figure a way out of. I find that in the middle of grief, I internalize the negative far more than the positive, allowing the words of those who do not respect me or care little for me to weigh so heavily, while the words of those who love me flutter away before I can catch them. I do not enjoy my successes as much as I should. I take the little things much harder than I would if there wasn’t this layer of sadness under my skin, and I allow the little tasks to pile up until they seem a mountain I can’t climb.

But I also know to count my blessings.

1. The smile that inevitably crosses my face when Dad tells me about his hilarious, “late in life” rules for dating women, a sign that he not only sees life after the death of his wife, my mother, of forty-five years, but he's going to live it in style.

2. The presence of my grandmother when I slip on the bracelets, the rings, the necklaces from the era of her youth to wear them today.

3. The lingering voice of my “Academic Dad”—my adviser, who was the best cheerleader a budding Ph.D. could hope for.

4. My loving husband and his family.

5. My wonderful friends and colleagues.

6. My opportunities to be a writer, a teacher, a scholar.

Just making these lists brings me a little closer to the surface.

And then, of course, I always have my beloved saints. Thank God my mother and grandmother bequeathed me St. Anthony, St. Jude, St. Ann, and others, who gather round me in the saddest times and, together, raise me up.