In The Bones is a play about the ongoing (and maybe never-ending) process of dealing with and internalizing profound, catastrophic loss. Structurally, each scene of the play moves forward one year, detailing how time has changed the nature of grief for the play’s characters, and whether they’re moving closer or further away from healing and grace.

A similar thing has happened to the play itself in the year it’s been in development. In its original form, the play was simply a one-act, a compact and highly emotional scene of a family in the immediate wake of an Afghanistan veteran’s suicide. The play was tough, difficult and unrelenting.

A few months later, I expanded the play into its full-length form: a series of scenes, each moving forward one year, tracking the character’s journeys. This version was tough, too. It held on tightly to the unrelenting quality of the one-act.

I’ve lived with these characters now for over a year, and as the play has gone through multiple revisions from readings and through this world premiere production process, I’ve been able to step back and see moments of grace. I’m not living in the painful and horrible moments of the first scene any more. Time and distance has allowed me to give my characters some hope and some healing. Which is exactly the journey they’re making across the three years of the play’s narrative.

One of the play’s characters talks about the surprising nature of loss over time: “He’s dead, and I don’t get to know much more about him. That’s what you think. But he doesn’t stop revealing himself, you know, he’s gone but he’s still around.”

Plays are like that. You write them, and you think you know them. But sit with them for a while, live with them over time, and they continue to reveal themselves, open themselves up in new and surprising ways, and – thankfully – stick around.