You desperately want to say the right thing. The magic thing, the elusive words that will make the unbearable somehow bearable after all – the comforting thing that for some reason won’t come to mind, no matter how long you struggle over the letter of condolence.
Grief is alienating, in a way. It takes the grieving off into a dark, angry world into which the rest of us are afraid to follow. Perhaps it’s having recently had a death in the family, or perhaps it’s having a mercifully very alive teenage son, but I’ve found myself skipping guiltily over reports this week about those four adventurous boys who could have been mine or yours, going missing on a camping trip to Snowdonia; the desperate search, the fading hope, and then the awful news of them being found dead in their car.
