Twenty-seven.
I knew.
She came to my cabin on the return voyage, her arms crossed over her chest. "Read them."
"I can't." And I turned away from her.
Again, at my apartment; the office; the lab; at my grandfather's house.
This time I pull up my mother's unopened emails. I skim the subject lines: birthdays, a tea order, weather...nothing in particular. Nothing…important.
This time, I turn toward Nyota. I cannot lift my eyes. I still respond the same: I can barely control the surge of grief.
"I still can't…"
"It's OK…"
This time…I reach for Nyota, and embrace her tightly.