Colette, the French novelist, once wrote: "I opened the drawer of my little desk and a single letter fell out, a letter from my mother, written in pencil, one of her last, with unfinished words and an implicit sense of her departure. It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign from behind a window...or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed...or a letter slips from a drawer...and everything collapses."
I can appreciate that displacement.
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