I'm quiet again. It's not by choice. I just can't write.

After my sister died, I couldn't write at all. I went through most of July without writing or even really speaking. I came back to Boston and the words came back to me. Now they're gone again. It all seems so arbitrary.

I read journals. I read books. I watch movies. I take in other people's words to fill the empty spaces where my words should be.

I watched Love Story. Such a classic scene right at the beginning: Ryan O'Neal sitting alone in the stands at the empty ice rink, his stunned voiceover saying, "What can you say about a 25-year-old girl who died?" As in where could I even begin? I wasn't impressed with his acting, but he got the voiceover right; I had to pause the movie to take some deep breaths and brush tears from my eyes.

What can I say about a 36-year-old woman who died? That she tried and tried and life never got easier? That her illness was as savage and random as cancer? That she loved me as much as she could?

I wish I could say anything at all.