The best submission we received to our new college literary journal came from my future sister in law. It was an essay about a time when she accidentally ran over a deer with a combine while living on a farm in South Dakota. It was painful to read, yet not gory. It made you ache for the author, who cradled in those pages more pain than a reader would think bearable. Reading it made you hope you never experienced anything like that, but also made you wish that maybe you would, if only so you could write about it the way that she did.
What I didn’t know then about the toll of cradling such pain.