If you were a bird, could you sing me a song of sorrow?

My mother-in-law is dying. She lies in a hospice-provided bed in her home, surrounded by family members and a profound, permeating sadness.
I tried to escape through music for the past week or so. Then my wife briefly returned home from her near-constant bedside vigil last night and we told our daughters the grave news.
I can't write about music or much of anything else today -- except I have to cover an anti-war protest today for the newspaper. Is that fitting?
So I won't right about music. Not now. I'll try to write about Ryan Adams' great "lost" album, "The Suicide Handbook" tomorrow.