The need to tell people was overwhelming. We called parents and family. I think telling my children was harder than learning he was dead. Someone from the hospital had to tell me I needed to make arrangements with a funeral home and I had no clue which one. We were met by the school principal as we were leaving. She was the one who found him, in the snow, when he didn’t show up for class or answer his phone; his truck was in the parking lot and the sap truck missing. The ride home; tears and feeling utterly alone. Two of my close friends were at the house shortly after we arrived; tears and hugs. I stared numbly, for long periods of time before keep-busy mode kicked in for the first time. People came; some I remember, others must have been there, but I can’t quite recall. Renewed grief upon each arrival. Someone picked up my son in Boston but I don’t remember his, or my daughter’s, arrival at the house. There are a few events I don’t remember at all. For me, extreme grief blocked most of the saddest memories, leaving me just enough room to breathe.