I am leaning on a brick wall down the street from my apartment, the sun is dropping in the sky, and people are going about their evenings as if there had not been a mass shooting the night before, and for the first time all day, I'm crying. Later, at home, I pull a book off the shelf in my office that was given to me sometime after my father passed away two summers ago, called Grief Is The Thing With Feathers. In it, a man who has lost his wife is visited by a large black bird, which sounds sinister but is not: Crow is a sentimental animal and human grief is the shiny tinsel that drew him to the man, and his two young sons, in the first place. It’s a slim novella — tender, wickedly funny, and yes, full of sorrow, all at the same time.