The following small reflection was written around a year ago, but it has taken on new urgency for me with Nancy Moules' (2017) and Kate Beamer's (2017) writing late last year, and my own more recent (Jardine, 2018), slightly unexpected response. The crux is this: why dwell on these matters? Perhaps writing relieves the writer, but why then read? Why listen to Sufjan Stevens' (2015, 2017) songs about the death of his mother, or, even more harrowing, Mount Eerie's (2017) songs about a wife lost

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... cancer, and a young child and husband now a bit lost in the world? It is not just a matter of empathizing or deep emotion, although it certainly is all that. It is also a chance for interpretive practice at a relatively safe distance, at relatively safe extent. To witness the careful articulation of suffering through reading writing (or listening to songs) that allows me to hold it at arm's length or let it come nearer if and as I'm able. There is something important to be said for practicing while we can, and not waiting for events that might just overwhelm my own composure altogether.