You’ll get over it.

Words people say after something tragic, bad or sorrowful happens in life. The phrase is intended to comfort, but it has the opposite effect.

How, specifically, does one get over the death of a spouse? A child? A parent?

How does one get over the feelings of unbelievable sadness and sorrow that permeate every aspect of a person’s life when tragedy happens?

Recently, one of my son’s good friends unexpectedly passed away. It’s the first time he’s had to deal with the death of a close friend; and as the words of comfort came out of my mouth, I knew they could do nothing to ease his pain.

The same week, my mom’s older brother passed away. Mom said he’d lived a good life, but that didn’t lessen her pain. When she called to tell me he’d died, I found myself starting to say the same words I’d said to my son, but stopped.

Instead, we talked about Uncle Ray, swapping stories, realizing he would always be alive in our memories. But no matter how much time passes, that sorrow remains an underlying part of life.

A dear friend told me once that sorrow never goes away. Those feelings change and people learn to meld sorrow into their daily life.

When people see her smiling face, watch her chatting in the grocery store or working at her desk, they think she’s finally gotten over the loss of her son.

But that’s only from people who’ve never had someone they love leave this life.

Memories of spending time with them are right underneath the surface and can be triggered at unexpected moments, especially through songs. Music is supposed to be one of the most comforting sounds around, but it’s also a major memory trigger for me.

Whenever I hear Cajun music, I think about my dad. While he was still alive, my dad would always shout out a “ay-eee” at the right moments in a Zydeco song, much to my embarrassment and his delight.

My mom and I were listening to songs on the Internet one evening, and her and my dad’s song came up in the playlist. She was a little misty-eyed, remembering that was their song, and I was sorry she was sad but glad I knew a little more about her as a young woman.

Photographs are wonderful mementos, but they can also trigger a torrent of tears. While going through a box of photos recently, I came across a picture of my grandparents.

They were standing behind the counter in the five-and-dime store they owned, and their faces could’ve been that of any shopkeeper in America – my grandfather wearing a worn cardigan sweater, and my grandmother with her glasses hanging on a silver chain.

The photo reminded me of trips to their store, helping dust the merchandise, to which my grandfather rewarded me with a small bag, telling me to fill it with candy for being such a big helper.

My grandmother’s face reminded me of the last time I saw her, ill and frail in a hospital bed, unwilling to face life any longer, the years of grieving for her son who died at a young age something she refused to accept.

She grieved all of her life for him, never learning to blend his memories in with her daily life. And that’s the difference in getting over the devastation and weaving sorrows into the joys that come our way.

Together, those ups and downs become the patchwork quilt of our life.

For we never get over a loss.

We simply learn to keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.