Have you noticed that when something tragic happens we cling on to tiny details? We scrounge around as if collecting fragments of broken glass, desperate to know everything.   Grieving silence is punctuated with the most irrelevant questions. What time of the day was it? What were her exact words, how did they sound? How did you hear of it? Today, I noticed that I needed to know the answers to all these questions. It is as if the bare truth alone is too much to bear; the sense of knowing every little detail and the ability to paint an accurate picture gives one a false sense of control. If I know everything may be it will make sense. Maybe hidden somewhere in all that detail is something that will help, something that will make it all better. So I sit here restless and hungry for information, information that can never change the cold fact of death.