Nights like this I can't handle.

Every night this month, I cradle Henry's urn and cry. I think it's the Easter story that everyone rejoices in.

Even if there is eternal life, I am spending the rest of my earthly one without a piece of my heart. Every night I've been sobbing, hoping for a miracle - a ghost, an angel, a saint - anyone to tell me that it's all true; that it's going to be all right.

I wish so hard at these times. I wish so hard that my heart breaks again, and again, because I know it's so silly and stupid.