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I lost my faith the year my Grandma passed away She was here and then she was not, and my belief slipped away with similar ease It was a year in which loss was rife: an aunt had passed several months before, and almost a month to the day later, another died suddenly, leaving behind a husband and toddler I watched something break in both father and son The boy stopped speaking and could only communicate his grief in actions He was always opening and closing cupboards and doors, as if he was looking for his mother, or maybe he understood, and was searching for a space large enough to house his ache   The day my Grandma died, something in me broke I spent a long time not knowing how to say this, not knowing what language there was to say this, not knowing that it was okay to say this I spent a long time not knowing The only thing I know now is that I will spend eternity not knowing There are no answers, but there are ways to cope   Instead of language, an image: at the funeral of my aunt, standing slightly to the side as the casket was lowered into the ground Watching my uncle take some crumbling earth in a closed fist, and hearing it scatter on the casket like light rain Other family members were invited to do the same Each fistful of soil felt like a soft hand against a door, knocking, knocking, knocking – knowing there could be no answer   On the first day, my mother paced the house She swept the corners of our living room, gathering all she could I could see that with this simple act she was reaching into the corners of her own mind, gathering all she could there too, hoping not to forget We had a small service in the same room a few days later, during which the pastor assured us that death was not the end He was right Time had taken on a different, hazy quality in which we seemed locked in stasis, moving in