Wit has truth in it.

They call it a wake, apparently, because in its ancient origins the word meant “to be active.” We gather together and combat the stunning, paralyzing effects of grief with intentional acts of distraction. We cook. We clean. We refill glasses of water. We move constantly, vigilantly. We press against the overwhelming sense of loss even if, at times, we feel like Sisyphus fighting earth’s natural rhythms. This weekend, we came together in the purest way: as fragile, emotional creatures, uninhibited and unvarnished. We cried and prayed and searched frantically for wisdom and comfort. This weekend, we held a wake. We watched one another and guarded one another—or gave it our best shot, at the very least. We shared memories the same way we shared platefuls of spaghetti: in heaps. There was no resolution, no remedy, no salve. The yoke of loss did not disappear but, spread across the shoulders of the community, became a much more manageable burden.