“You can live, too, Deven. You are living. Remember I said earlier, the grief is a burden you have to carry.” Felicia put her clipboard to the side and reached beside the couch for a large tote bag. She sat the bag on the table and held the strap in Deven’s direction. “Try to lift the bag,” she instructed. Obediently, Deven took the strap and rose, slinging the tote easily over her shoulder. Felicia nodded in approval. “How is it, carrying the bag?”

“Easy. It’s light,” Deven answered, not quite following where she was going.

Again, Felicia nodded, and she stood to cross to the bookcase behind her desk. She pulled some books down in varying sizes and widths and brought them back to the table with her. Then, one-by-one, she began placing the books in the bag. The strap began to bite into Deven’s shoulder as she struggled to hold it up and eventually, she pulled it off and let it drop to the ground. “Now, pick up the bag,” Felicia demanded, resting her hands on her hips.

Deven grunted under the added weight, finally managing to hoist the bag back onto her shoulder. She grimaced with the pain.

“Now, how is it?”

“Heavy.”

“Exactly.” Felicia relieved her by taking the bag from her hands. “So, you see, it’s the same bag, the same grief. Some days, you’ll be able to carry the load a little easier. Other days, you may fall under the weight. And you know what? All of that is okay.” Felicia seemed pleased with her exercise as she motioned for Deven to sit down once more. She passed a sheet of paper across the table where she’d drawn a single line through the middle to separate the paper into two halves. “I want you to do something for me,” she said. “Take a few minutes and write down a memory that comes to mind with your dad. Don’t think, just write. I’ll tell you when time’s up.”

Deven accepted the pen Felicia handed her, took a breath, and started writing. She allowed the words to flow through the ink and as the sentences took shape, so did the memory. All of the emotions came flooding back, the despair, the passion, the desperation. . . she loved her dad and it crushed her to hear his pain. By the time Felicia called time Deven hadn’t finished, and she felt just as incomplete as her dad had all those years ago. Out of all the memories, she felt bad that this was the one that was most prominent.

“Would you like to share the memory?” Felicia asked.