Jill and I want details.
Not just that the college student cracked her head open but how she slid off the pickup’s tailgate to land on a rock.
Not just a lumber accident but how his hand got stuck in the shredder (and why the rest of him slowly followed).
Not just because he went to the dentist on that fateful day. But in the chair? Was it the drill?
It started in medical school, together, dissecting cadavers, wondering about their pasts.
We aren’t ashamed of wanting the specifics of unimaginable losses; instead, we become determined to live ferociously another day.