Ginny had always known about death.
It was a distant concept, a whisper carried on the edges of family gatherings and hushed conversations at wakes. She'd heard the stories, seen the photographs of distant relatives framed in black ribbons, and sat through the speeches about celebrating lives well-lived. Most of them were old, relatives whose names barely registered in her memory. Great-uncles, second cousins twice removed, family members she wouldn't have recognized if they'd been standing in front of her.
Her mother would always pull her aside afterward, kneeling down to her eye level and speaking in a soft, measured voice.
"It's okay to cry if you feel like it, Ginny," she'd say, her hands warm and reassuring on Ginny's shoulders. "Mourning is normal. Grief is just love in a coat."
