I once read a book entitled A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis (You might know him for his children's book, The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.). In this book, he describes the horrible -how trite and phony the word horrible sounds in this instance - anguish he suffered when his beloved wife died. Mr. Lewis married late and his wife died not long afterwards, but his grief was deep and profound just the same. And now I find myself in a circumstance that, while not the same, bears a crushing similarity.

In the midst of what should be an enormously happy episode in my life (Yes, someone did have the uncommon good sense to hire me as a teacher!), I too am grappling, gulping for air as I go down, with one of life's most stinging blows.

Sorry, I can't be funny this month. Not that I can't appreciate humor. It's just that the concept of 'funny' produces a blank fogginess in my head. I am numb with grief. I find tears, plump and resistant to all decorum, ready to overcome my defenses with a swiftness that would be applauded by any general. And fall, the season that I loved most of all, is a mockery.

I'm not as eloquent as Mr. Lewis, but perhaps grief, the unstinting barrenness of it, is the most eloquent emotion of them all. After all, do words really explain the awful tightness in your chest when that lonely pain grabs you unaware? Why are there times when you just forget to breathe and deep, shuddering, sobs of air fill your lungs when you suddenly remember? When I've been sad before, I always asked the question, why? "Why" doesn't matter anymore. Not now. Not in this. It hurts too much.

And... you keep on going. You buy your son a jacket that he's wanted. You pack your briefcase the night before so that it's ready in the morning. You pick up a memo, and your hand shakes, and you ignore it, and go on with your reading. You slap a smile on your face. And write your column. And, you go on.