Lincoln in the Bardo

With each sob, a dagger left the griever and found its way into me, most painfully

His headstrong nature, a virtue in that previous place, imperils him here, where the natural law, harsh and arbitrary, brooks no rebellion, and must be scrupulously obeyed

Lord, what is this? All of this walking about, trying, smiling, bowing, joking? This sitting-down-at-table, pressing-of-shirts, tying-of-ties, shining-of-shoes, planning-of-trips, singing-of-songs-in-the-bath?
When he is to be left out here?
Is a person to nod, dance, reason, walk, discuss?
As before?
A parade passes. He can’t rise and join. Am I to run after it, take my place, lift knees high, wave a flag, blow a horn?
Was he dear or not?
Then let me be happy no more

We wanted to know what this apparently charmed being thought of our particular reasons for remaining

Some blows fall too heavy upon those too fragile

He was not perfect; he was, remember, a little boy. Could be wild, naughty, overwrought. He was a boy. However—it must be said—he was quite a good boy

His self-possession—aplomb, as the French call it—was extraordinary.
Willis, op. cit

I had been happy, happy enough, but now I often found myself uttering a spontaneous prayer that went, simply: She is here, still here. It was as if a rushing river had routed itself through my house, which was pervaded now by a freshwater scent and the awareness of something lavish, natural, and breathtaking always moving nearby.