The first winter after my father's death, there was a substantial snowfall. I was seventeen. I put on my gray fleece coat, the lining as white as the snow, and walked around the yard alone. Only silence. Snowflakes fell on my hair and skin. I saw a dead rabbit in a ditch, a hole in its head, blood crusting on the rim of the wound. I thought of Emily Dickinson wearing only white after her father's death. I looked at the world--all the houses shrouded in white, the ground unmarred by footprints, the icy shimmer on every surface--and I wept because it was beautiful and he was not there to see it, because he would never be with me again.