I recently bumped into a man in one of my local parks, my camera in hand. He approached and told me he was a photographer as well. We did as all photography nerds do and began talking about camera brands, specs and preferred focal lengths.

Mourning isn’t for the dead. It’s for the living. Whether you believe in an afterlife or that death is a full-stop, the loved ones we lost are free of worry and pain. Our mourning is the acceptance of our own worry, our own pain. But at some point, we must shed the weight of sorrow and transition back to joy.

My mother, Cynthia Rose Neil, died this weekend at the age of 77, two days before I planned a surprise visit. That visit would have ended nearly a dozen years of having not seen her or my father in person. A self-induced exile resulting from childhood trauma and a myriad of unresolved issues. In lieu of getting to see her one last time, I wrote this letter.