We’re alike, you and I. We’ve never met. Our faces would be those of strangers if we met. We would barely perceive the others presence if we passed on our walk through the mists. We’re unknown to each other until the terrible words have been spoken: "My child died."

We’re alike, you and I. We measure time in seconds and eternities. We try to go forward to yesterday. Tomorrows are for old people, and we are incomplete now. The tears after a time turn inward to become invisible to all save you and me. Our souls are rumpled from wrestling with demons and doubts and unanswerable prayers: "Give me back my child."

We’re alike, you and I. The tears that run down your face are my tears and the wound in your soul is my pain too. We need time, but time is our enemy for it carries us farther and farther from our lost child. And we cry out: "Help me."

We’re alike, you and I. And we need each other. Don’t turn away, but give me your hand and for a time we can cease to become strangers and become what we truly are, a family closer than blood, united by a bond that was forced upon us—but a bond that can make us stronger, still wounded to be sure, but stronger for our sorrows are shared. "We need not walk alone."