Response to "The Management of Grief", Bharati Mukherjee -- By David Z. He

I heard a woman who is boiling water tells her story again, if I recall I remembers that she lives the street from mine, she and Satish moved in less than a month ago for a bigger place. They were friendly to neighbor and are liked widely by the society. They made homemade tandoori on their grill and even the white neighbors would stretch their arms desperate for another refill fir the lusture red, charred, juicy Indian chicken cuisine. Their younger daughter danced and sang, they made albums and everyone seemed to enjoy it. I saw my mother bowed and her eyebrows twisted together because of the sorrow of loss—“How many happy faces are gone, why does God give us so much if he plans to take it all away?” she cried out. Kusum, tells her story again, “When I first heard the news, my cousins called from Halifax before the morning, could you imagine? He has already up for prayers and his son overheard about something happened to a plan when he was on a rock channel while reviewing his medical test, “I cried out and paniced”, “what happen, something bad, what do you mean something bad? A hijack.” I’ve never thought it would be something so horrendous like bomb the plan of 364 people inside it. And then he said “sorry, but there is no confirmation of anything yet, check with your neighbors down the streets, lots of them must be on that air plane. As soon as I realized that the Kusums’ have booked their tickets to Vancouver, I panicked, hoping that the accident is just a mechanical mistake that make the planes not able to take off, I’m cheating myself over the brutal reality.