This might not even be a book. If it is a book, it’s certainly making other books jealous. For one, it comes in a box. A scrapbook, a list, a collection of quotes and letters and definitions and memories. Rubbings, paintings, photos. The life of a brother, lost. You might wonder whether or not you should take this thing out of its box…whether you should spread it around the room and see it all at once, or whether you should look at it piece by piece. There’s no right answer. These things are sad individually and as a whole. They’re healing. These things make sense because they’re rooted in the ancients: loss, need, sacrifice, devotion. Everything about this is imperfect, and so it makes absolute sense–it has texture. Looking through this thing–reading, trying to feel it–seems intrusive: Repent means “the pain again.” This needs no explanation–it’s what’s done when confusion and relation are so deep that they become one. Hope that you will not have to do this, and know that you will. If you are writing an elegy begin with the blush. Think about history and light and words. Think about the living and the dead.