I am meant to be writing a book on death and grief, on bereavement. As it turns out, it is more a book I am meant to be writing than a book I am, in fact, writing. When I try to write it – or write at it – I lay words to page only to then lay waste to those pages. I start, then stop, then start again to stop again. The time for this, I think each time, is just not right. Today, at long belated last, I realized that the time will never be right.