Around this time, every year, I wait for a mother’s proclamation of love for her dead son. As she did on 11 January, in a tweet: “10 years without this face, without this voice, without this mind, without this love, without this light.” I find laments of the grieving and their honest cliches more stirring than the high prose of good writers, who are a class of actors. Maybe the origin of human language was in sorrow. Some years, the message of Susan Swartz is shorter. “9 years. 9 YEARS,” she tweeted last year. “Unbelievably, 8 years have gone by. RIP my darling boy,” she wrote before that. A mother does not need anniversaries to remember her son. So, “6 years, 2 months. RIP my darling boy.” Her messages are always accompanied by the image of a smiling young man, or of a picture when he was a child.