I had been married for seven days, to a man I had known for less than a year, and his death opened a hole in me that felt entirely out of proportion to the time we had shared.

I did not understand, sitting in that silence, why it hurt so much.

I would understand soon.

Because a few minutes later, an elderly man walked into the room, carrying a heavy green backpack, and everything I thought I knew about my brief, strange marriage was about to come apart.

I have wondered, since, whether the hole Julian left in me was really out of proportion to our seven days, or whether I simply did not yet know how much those seven days had contained.

Because grief, I have learned, does not measure itself in the length of an acquaintance.