“Your son, Hamnet," she said, swallowing. "Does the loss... does it ever abate?" He stilled. She wondered how long it had been since someone spoke that name out loud to him. "It changes," he said carefully. "At times it stops pulling, like a stitch. But then I will be doing something, perhaps crossing a field where I once tossed him onto my shoulder, and I will find myself on my knees sobbing." Shakespeare cleared his throat. "They call it a loss, but that's misconstrued, is it not? They remain with us.”
Book:By Any Other Name
