I don't fight the emotions any more. I allow myself to be sad and marinate in it like grandma's meatballs, letting all the sadness seep into my heart, turning it into a ball of tears mixed with an ugly cry face, some manly grunts, onions, minced garlic and sweet peppers. Then bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes. And then—like an eaten meatball—it passes.
