The nature of loss.

I know you lost something that can't be replaced; that there is a hole that no amount of time or love or family can fill.

That is the nature of loss.

We build a vast and sprawling home to house our soul. Part of it is already there when we consciously begin the work, the foundation painstakingly laid, every brick in its place; and part of it comes to us from others who walk in and out of our lives. We decorate with our joys, and leave tokens to remember and honor our grief. When a window shatters, we can replace the glass. When the hinges rust and the doors grow stiff, we can oil them. When the grass is scorched in the long, hot summer and the trees begin to sag, we can tend our yards and nurture the soil.

And we can pray for rain.

But when the foundation shifts, when a wall cracks -- that calls for repair of an order beyond our skill. You might buy a large painting and hang it over the scar, but that is, at best, cosmetic. Every time you see that frame, you will feel the crack behind it. You know it's there, and anyone who has been to your home will know it's there, too.

Some people in your life will want you to put up the painting. To hide the wound in the wall, to pretend it isn't there. Because that makes them more comfortable when they come to visit -- when life brings them into the home that houses your soul.

I'm not asking you to cover it up. I'm not asking you to "get over it."

But I am asking you to remember the rest of your home. To keep the curtains open. To put in a skylight and read on the porch, to tend your gardens and sip your martinis while you take in the change of seasons. To leave the crack uncovered, to see it and know it and mourn for the damage it has caused -- but not let it spread from one room to the next.

To not let your home fall into ruin because of a crack in the wall.