One of my oldest friends is a doctor in Delhi, pragmatic and optimistic to a fault, even through the pandemic. I ask how she is. “Always near tears,” she says.

I read one of those Instagram homilies the other day:  I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief. It reminded me of my friend H saying, “I think when we are hurt, some of us access our anger more easily, and some our grief.” I thought she was right. Grief and anger carry different vulnerabilities and strengths. Some of us conceal grief’s fragilities with anger; others confront grief, but fear anger’s confrontations with power.