Unraveling the Mysteries of Grieving When Secrets Remain Unknown

Deep down the words for our wounds may have decayed into indecipherable runes or relics

Gram — Nancy McCarthy Mark — on one of many tours of my garden in New Jersey. Photo by Madeline Bowne.

Six months after the funeral, the large collage has remained at the end of our hallway. It was one of three used at the funeral in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

Yes, there were that many pictures. Our daughters, Madeline and Nancy, Jr., just couldn’t winnow any more of the memories.

Whenever I enter my study to write or pay bills, I acknowledge this heavy collage. It’s poster-sized, 24x36, with a brushed metallic silver frame. To fit against the wall, I need to turn the collage sideways.

Whenever I say “Good morning” or “Good night” to her, I spot one of a hundred carefully cut-out photos — like the one with Ma and Bill laughing and hugging during one of our too-numerous-to-count outside lunches.

That picture with Bill in his goofy, light brown fisherman’s hat and Ma with a smile so wide her eyes appear closed resides forever on the top right-hand side.

Pop Pop Bill and Gram hug for the camera on one of many lunches together with the Bownes. Photo by author.