Loss, in the most classic sense, is heavy. It splatters into your life and scatters the pieces. It utterly and completely devastates you. Living with loss, is clearing out the cupboards, and airing out the attic, and making room for its whole piece. The only way to get the pieces back together, is to clear the dust, and confront it head on. It is hard to write about it directly, and there is no language for loss. We’re conditioned to contain it, to keep it small, to deal with it, to isolate it to a memory or a learning experience, but loss is so much more than all of those things. It has implications on how we reflect and how we see our own identity. Loss is static: the sound that remains when there is no vision, no station, no connection. The thrum filling a room while we wait. The signal that something should be there, should be coming; was there, but isn’t. It is not a language but it is so loud. Loss is sound continuing, sound that moves. Loss is motion – a state and a process, a moving away of yourself or another.