I had never sought out a grave before. It was a chilly October morning when I passed the wooden sign for Kearsarge Cemetery in North Conway, New Hampshire. I walked the damp, narrow paths, brushing light snow from headstones in search of my grandmother’s name: Martha Anne Burke. After a half hour, I turned toward the exit, texting my Mom that I had come up empty. Talking to her from my dad’s house an hour before, I had asked her where her mother had been buried over a decade ago. She gave me vague directions, unable to remember the exact location. While we were talking, I heard a loud thwack. A bird had flown into a window and died instantly, the third one in…