Two days ago I told you I wasn't writing many new pieces, and today I'm telling you that I have fallen headfirst into an essay about watching my child negotiate a broken heart. When I first started writing it, I thought, "Oh, maybe this will turn out to be one of those snappy New York Times 'Modern Love' essays," but I should have known better. At least in my life, there is no such thing as modern. Dido, that queen of heartbreak, has already made an appearance; history and story are creeping into the narrative; my poor son is surrounded by the ghosts of heartbreak past. And yet my essay is trying to talk about the primacy of the present, at least insofar as one suffers the grief of love.

As Denise Levertov writes, "Heart's fire breaks the chest, almost."