“I can always spot a newbie. They always have that deer-in-the-headlights look about them. No offence, dear. I’m sure I looked the same at my first meeting. But there’s nothing to be nervous about. My name’s Barbara, by the way. But everyone calls me Barbie.” She reaches out a thin, wrinkled hand in greeting.

“I’m Kavita.” She clasps the woman’s fingers, a gentle shake.

“Oh now, what a lovely name. Very exotic. Now do me a favour, dear, and write it out on this sticker.” Barbie winks, playful.

Grinning despite her nerves, Kavita grabs a blue Sharpie and does as instructed.

“When you’re finished with that, I’ll have you fill out your contact information on this sheet. Now, we keep everything confidential. Some people worry about their personal details being leaked or something like that. It’s mostly for funding purposes. We need to show our that people actually come out to our little meetings.”

“Not so little.” Kavita peels away the rectangular sticker and pastes it on the outside of her coat over her heart. “Looks like a good turnout to me.”

“We always expect a crowd before and after the holidays. It’s a hard time of the year when you’re nursing grief. Especially fresh grief. Fresh grief makes infants of us all.”

“I used to love Christmastime. Now I’m just glad it’s over,” Kavita admits, surprised by her candour.

“Aren’t we all, dear?” says Barbie with a knowing smile. “It’s never all bad, I suppose. But it’s never quite the same either, is it?”

As Kavita fills in her contact information, Barbie explains that the meetings usually begin with a video about bereavement, followed by a ten-minute break. After the break, she continues, people split into groups specific to their loss. “It shouldn’t be much longer,” she says. “Feel free to help yourself to a glass of juice or any of the handouts while you wait. Or if you’re like me, a fistful of Kleenex!” She smiles. “I know it might not seem like it yet, dear, but trust me, it’s good that you’re here. Welcome again.”

Kavita smiles, insecure. Facing the room, she pauses, reluctant to abandon the safety of the sign-in table and Barbie, the only person she knows.

Cutting across the room, she marches over to the chairs. Her boots squeak with every step. So much for slipping in quietly. As she takes a seat in the back row, she hears an unexpected sound emerging from the kitchen, a sound that surprises her the way springtime birdsong does after a long, mute winter: laughter. Real laughter. The kind that pops from the belly without warning, loud and embarrassing. The kind that throws back heads. Those must be the regulars, she thinks, prickled by their light-heartedness, which to her, feels out of place. Then again, maybe she’s the one who doesn’t belong.