This morning I went to the funeral of the Montgomery County Stryker soldier. I met his mother who asked me "does it get better?" Six weeks, I told her, that's the lowest point, and then you start learning how to live with this. She had other people to greet, people she actually knew, or who had known her son, and so we left it that we would get together soon. But going to my seat I realized that the answer is more complicated than that. It seemed to me that the three weeks leading up to that six week mark were all very hard. When Anne came to see me at about the four week mark, I finally asked her when I was going to stop feeling so desolate. The desolation did pass but it took several months. And now, five years and a few months out, the intensity has faded--I almost miss it. I realized at the beginning though that the body knows how to grieve and will protect itself: that intensity would have been debilitating if it had lasted many months. I still grieve but I am also moving forward with my life.