I did not know the shape of grief until my healthy father and my vigorous mother died a few short months of each other. I find myself sifting through the old coins my father left me and I am not counting the value of money, but I am feeling each one as though I was he. There are the coins from Reykjavik, Iceland where he was a sailor in WW II in 1942. And all the silver coins feel so thin in my fingers – so worn and so wonderful. And my mother – there is her light green night shirt from Orvis that I gave her  to wear after she returned from…