Life now has a definitive before and after. What existed prior to tragedy is now gone—not in the sense that all of it’s disappeared entirely—but threads connecting me to that time have been forever altered.

If you are not familiar with passages through the dark, you probably won’t understand. That’s okay. All of us will at some point lose someone we love, though. All loss isn’t the same, either. Therese Rando posits that sudden, unanticipated death leaves those left behind traumatized due primarily from the psychological assault brought on by a death like Mark’s.

I continually run into people who don’t know my story. Why should they? It’s not like I’m hosting a reality TV program or anything. Of course, being the self-oriented people that we are, it’s easy to assume that everyone knows that my son was killed and expect them to acknowledge it. What’s interesting to me after slightly more than a year of acting out a common scene, is how people do react when they do find out. It runs the gamut from basically not acknowledging it (sort of like “oh,” and then moving on), offering some version of the platitude,” I’m sorry for your loss,” and then, there are those who engage with you in a human and empathetic fashion. This group is the smallest one.

Last Thursday, I was out visiting businesses—I think the sales parlance is, “cold-calling.” I’ve mentioned something about insurance before. Well, I ran into someone I worked with more than 20 years ago. We had a meaningful conversation mainly because he understood where I’d been and where I’m at right now, navigating grief’s journey. He’s also lost family members over the past two years.

Later, I went into a business I had a relationship during a prior period of my life, when I was with the Central/Western Maine Workforce Investment Board (one of the LWIBs that our governor has waged an ongoing, personal war against). My point of contact was no longer there. But the benefits manager was someone I knew from high school. What are the odds?

I was supposed to go out last night and see someone who is legendary in certain music circles. I even had my ticket. All week long I was dreading the show. I’d listen to something by the artist online and read an article and realize, I had no desire to see a troubadour with a guitar, grounding his songs in simplicity. Call me cynical if you like.

Grief and loss changes you forever.

Grief and loss changes you. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been listening to dream pop, ambient, shoegaze, avant garde works, and a new band I’ve discovered, Bipolar Explorer. A musical package from them is on the way. I am anticipating it. I’m sure I’ll have something more to write about how I came to find them and how their music has helped me navigate my sadness since I first heard them on WFMU.

I do have tickets to see an up-and-coming band from Philly, Alvvays, in May. Oh, and Robyn Hitchcock looms on the horizon, too.

Not sure what any of this means—at least to someone who hasn’t been affected by loss—or perhaps who hasn’t, but at least can summon some empathy. But, I’m writing it down and I am attempting to post more frequently. And if it doesn’t matter to others, it matters to me.