If you loved how the narrative in Grief Is the Thing with Feathers jumps between Dad, the Boys, and Crow—each voice refracting the same grief—then the chorus of ghosts in Lincoln in the Bardo will feel instantly right. You’ll get that same blend of tenderness and absurdity as the voices swarm around Willie Lincoln’s death, much like Crow’s disruptive, mischievous intrusions in the London flat. It’s polyphonic, funny-bleak, and deeply humane—another tapestry of grief speaking in many tongues.

Crow barges into the widower’s home like a myth made flesh—part menace, part guardian—and the yew-tree monster in A Monster Calls plays a similar role for Conor. If Crow’s riddling stories, scatalogical jokes, and fierce care resonated for you as the Boys navigated their mother’s death, you’ll find the monster’s parables and midnight visits just as cathartic. It’s that same charged ambiguity: Is the creature real or a psyche’s scaffolding? Either way, it tells the truth you need.

Porter keeps you inside a tiny orbit—the flat, the father’s bed, the Boys’ rooms—where everyday mess rubs shoulders with devastation. Mourning Diary offers that same compressed, intimate radius: terse entries written after Barthes’s mother dies, as immediate and jagged as the Dad’s brief, aching sections. If the small rituals in the wake of the mother’s absence caught you—the tea, the toys, the way time stutters—you’ll appreciate how this book honors grief’s minute-by-minute texture.

If you were moved by the Dad’s vulnerable interior monologues and the Boys’ raw, half-feral feelings—set to Porter’s lyrical, hybrid prose—Vuong’s novel-in-letters will land beautifully. Like the way Crow teases out truths the family can’t face head-on, the son’s letter here excavates trauma, tenderness, and memory with an intensity that’s both searing and gentle. It’s intimate confession as healing practice, written in language that hums the way Porter’s does.

Crow, of course, is more than a bird—he’s myth and metaphor stitched into the family’s grief, a living symbol that lets the story say what plain speech can’t. The White Book builds a luminous meditation from symbols—salt, snow, milk—gathered around a lost sister. If you admired how Porter folded Ted Hughes’s Crow into talisman and teacher for Dad and the Boys, you’ll love how Kang’s distilled images turn mourning into a quiet, transcendent ritual.