Some things went with her. I have to live with that.
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Opening Reflection: The Photograph Without a Story
I was lying on the bed, flipping through the photo gallery on her phone. Hundreds, probably thousands, of pictures — Angé was a collector of moments. She didn’t just take pictures of people; she photographed feelings.
There were photographs of trees with the afternoon light threading through the branches, of beaches where the wind had clearly been fierce enough to make her hair wild, of dogs she met on walks whose names I’ll never know. There were half-finished meals on café tables, blurred selfies taken at odd angles, and landscapes I couldn’t place.
And then there were the stranger ones — a single streetlamp glowing in the fog, a scrap of paper with a sentence scribbled on it, a chipped mug next to a slice of cake. There were people I didn’t know, and scenic places I’d never been. Some had obvious context; others were locked away in meaning I couldn’t reach.
One in particular caught me — a close-up of a coffee cup with a red napkin folded neatly beside it. The background was blurred, just a hint of light and shadow. Was this Paris? Cape Town? A quiet afternoon in a corner café near home? And why had she taken it? Was she with someone? Was it the colour of the napkin that caught her eye, the warmth of the coffee in her hands, or the conversation she was having at that moment?
I don’t know. And now I never will.
The moment is sealed.
Not buried in the ground, but gone with her.
Locked in a part of her heart I’ll never have access to.
And so I lie there, not just mourning her absence — but mourning the quiet stories that left with her.
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1. The Hidden Grief of Unanswered Curiosity
Most people talk about mourning the physical and emotional presence of a person — their voice, their smell, the way they walked into a room or placed a hand on your shoulder. But there’s another kind of grief, one that creeps in slowly, months or even years later, catching you unprepared.
It’s the grief of not knowing.
Of never knowing.
It’s not about regret in the traditional sense. It’s about the questions you didn’t even know you had until the chance to ask them was gone. The little mysteries that were never urgent enough to raise in conversation, but now seem impossibly important.
Like the worn key I found in the back of her drawer — small, silver, and well-used. What did it open? A jewellery box? A storage unit? A door from her childhood? I’ll never know. Or the postcard from Lisbon tucked into an old book — unsigned, unaddressed, just a single line of handwriting: “Wish you were here.” Who wrote it? Was it even to her?
And sometimes it’s something as ordinary as a song on the radio. I’ll hear the first notes and wonder, Did she love this one? Did it remind her of something? Someone? Me?
It’s a strange ache — not sharp enough to bring you to your knees, but deep enough to settle under your skin. These questions become small ghosts that wander through your thoughts at odd hours.
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2. What Do You Do With a Question That Has No Answer?
When a question comes and there’s no one left to answer it, the mind fights it. Logic tells you to either find the answer or move on — but grief doesn’t play by logic’s rules.
The temptation is to turn detective. To scour old messages, emails, and social media posts for clues. To ask mutual friends, to dig up old photographs, to follow threads that might lead somewhere.
Sometimes that helps. Sometimes it hurts. And sometimes it’s just exhausting.
Over time, I realised there’s no universal answer for how to handle these moments. What matters is having a rhythm — a gentle strategy for how you meet these questions when they arrive, because they will keep arriving.
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3. A Gentle Strategy for When the Questions Come
a. Pause and Name the Moment
I start by simply saying:
“This is one of those Angé questions.”
It sounds small, but naming it gives me space. It stops my mind from spiralling into frantic searching and reminds me: I’ve been here before, and I survived it.
b. Decide How to Hold the Question
I give myself three choices:
1. Hold It Softly
Let the question sit beside me, like a quiet friend. Say it out loud, write it in my journal, or just whisper it to the air. Sometimes the act of honouring the question is enough.
2. Let It Float Away
Not every ache needs to be chased. I imagine the question like a leaf in a stream, drifting away. I don’t have to keep grabbing at it.
3. Create a Compassionate Fiction
This one surprised me the most. I can imagine an answer — not to trick myself, but to comfort myself. I picture her laughing with an old friend over that coffee cup. I imagine she took the photo because the sunlight on the red napkin reminded her of joy. These invented answers aren’t lies; they’re love stories I get to keep telling.
c. Give the Question a Home
I keep a notebook titled Questions I Never Got to Ask.
Inside are entries like:
• “Who were you with in this café?”
• “Why did you save that tiny seashell?”
• “What were you thinking when you paused mid-sentence that night?”
The questions live there now. They no longer float untethered, and somehow that makes them lighter.
d. Use Photographs as Gentle Memory Starters
There’s another way these unanswered questions can find a home — through photographs.
Sometimes a photograph isn’t just a mystery to carry alone; it can be a bridge to conversation. When family or close friends are gathered — especially during times when you’re remembering the one you’ve lost — these images can become gentle memory joggers.
You pass the laptop or the photo album around, pausing at one that catches your eye. “Does anyone know where this was?” you might ask. And sometimes, someone will — and a story unfolds. Maybe your cousin remembers being there. Maybe a friend recalls the day and fills in the details.
It’s not about interrogating people or forcing answers. It’s about opening the door for shared remembering. Sometimes clarity comes. Sometimes it doesn’t. But either way, the act of gathering around a photo and honouring it together can be healing in itself.
And here’s something worth noticing — even if no one can give you the exact answer, the process itself creates something valuable: bonding. Suddenly, you and the people around you share the same curiosity. You share the same memories that surface. You share the same space of loss and love. These moments become an opportunity to draw a little closer, to strengthen ties with the people who are still here.
In those minutes, you’re not just remembering the person who has gone; you’re building new layers of connection with those who remain. That shared interest, that shared knowledge — it’s a quiet gift the photograph gives you.
Handled with care, these photographs become more than unanswered questions — they become conversation pieces, story-starters, and moments of connection that keep the love alive on both sides of the loss.
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4. Should We Go Searching for Answers?
Some questions can be answered. Others can’t. And some shouldn’t.
There have been times I’ve sent a photo to one of her friends and asked, “Do you know where this was?” More than once, I’ve been rewarded with a story I’d never heard before — and those moments feel like small gifts.
But there have also been times when searching only deepened the ache. When the answer led to more questions, or to a truth I wasn’t ready for.
So I ask myself:
• Will finding this answer bring comfort?
• Or will it just create more longing?
• Would she want me to know?
• Or is this one of the moments she would have smiled about and kept to herself?
If the answer feels gentle, I follow the thread. If it feels jagged, I leave it in peace.
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5. The Role of Suppression and Control
People often talk about avoiding feelings as a weakness — but I’ve learned that choosing when to face them can be a strength.
Suppression, in grief, can mean giving yourself permission to delay the pain until you have the capacity to face it. It’s not denial. It’s emotional pacing.
Avoidance says, This doesn’t matter.
Suppression says, This matters deeply, but I’ll face it when I can.
And sometimes, “when I can” never comes — and that’s okay too. You don’t need to chase every unanswered question to honour the one you loved.
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6. Let Some Questions Be Sacred
Perhaps the most freeing truth I’ve learned is that I’m not entitled to every part of her story.
Some of the moments that left with her weren’t meant for me. Not because she wanted to hide them, but because they were hers alone.
We like to think love means knowing everything. It doesn’t. Love is also knowing what not to ask, what not to uncover, and what to let rest.
A person isn’t a puzzle to be completed. They’re a mystery to be cherished. And sometimes, that mystery is the most beautiful part.
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7. When the Ache Feels Too Heavy
Some questions land with a weight you can feel in your chest. They stop you mid-step, mid-breath. They remind you all over again that you can’t lean over and say, “Tell me about this one.”
When that happens, I try to:
• Speak the question out loud.
• Take a slow breath.
• Say to myself:
“This question proves I still care. I still wonder. I still love.”
That small reframing changes everything. It turns the ache into proof of love.
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Conclusion: The Unfinished Chapters of Love
Love always leaves us with unfinished chapters. That’s not a flaw; it’s the way love works. Even if we had another fifty years together, there would still be things I didn’t know about her.
The questions that remain are not failures. They’re evidence of a life lived fully enough to have depths no one could completely chart.
Mourning is not about closing the book.
It’s about learning to live with the pages left blank — and to treat those blank pages with reverence.
Every time a question surfaces, I take it as a small sign: She mattered so much that I am still listening, even in her absence.
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Final Reflection: The Ongoing Conversation
Sometimes I think about how much of life is a conversation we never finish. We start stories and don’t get to the end. We ask questions but never hear the answer. We share memories without knowing we’ve only told half of them.
And when the person we love is gone, the unfinishedness of it all can feel unbearable. But I’ve come to see that the conversation doesn’t have to end. It changes form.
Now, I speak to her in the quiet. I ask the questions anyway — out loud, in the car, while I’m cooking, when I’m walking under a sky she would have stopped to photograph. Sometimes I imagine her answer. Sometimes I just let the silence answer for her. Both feel real enough.
These unanswered questions are not failures in love. They are proof of it. They are reminders that there was always more to her than I could ever hold. They are proof that she lived a life wide enough, deep enough, and mysterious enough that I am still reaching for it.
And maybe that’s the point. Love, the real kind, doesn’t run out when the answers do.
It keeps asking.
It keeps wondering.
It keeps listening — even in the silence.
Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I now take photos of small things — the flicker of light on a wooden deck, a crooked chair in a café, a half-finished cup of tea. I take them knowing that one day someone else might find these images, tilt their head, and wonder.
They might never know the story.
But the love will still be there.
